


Never I'd Have Life Enough

by ellelore



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1 sneaky girl influences 3 reckless targs to adequately deal with 1 Icy Boi and 1 swordy throne, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Jon is a Targ, Mix of book and show, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, faegon isn't fake, timeline is a bit whack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-03-13 03:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 84,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18932176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellelore/pseuds/ellelore
Summary: Fleeing Braavos, she has a plan. Complete an expanded list. Sweep north to south. Make it known that the Starks are not yet gone. Make it known that Arya Stark of Winterfell lives.Yet, Arya lands in Maidenpool at the height of tensions in Westeros, and abruptly finds herself entangled in the intricacies of alliances and war which clutch the kingdoms. Faces old, new, and changed dictate events beyond her control; any power she thought to have had appears diminished one moment, exponential the next.Arya must discover her role within the disorder, the life she must lead to ensure the North is not smothered further and to ensure there is a life to live at all.ORI mash the books and show together into a new timeline, make Young Griff the real Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia, and have Arya abruptly fall into his hands as she resumes her press for vengeance.Starts roughly within seasons 5 and 6 and after A Dance with Dragons (and tWoW preview chapters).





	1. Arya I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> This is my first attempt at a book-based (and somewhat show-based) fic. Mostly, it was inspired by a comment in 'The Lost Emperor' by House Blackfyre, about Arya and Aegon being friends, or even romantically involved. That led to me searching the Arya/Aegon tag and delving into some juicy stories, so a big thanks to all of them, particularly madaboutasoiaf with their story 'The Many Faced God Must Have His Due' (I will do my very best to make this story different!). 
> 
> One thing I enjoyed about season 8 (I don't want to get into the whole thing here) is the general concept of humanizing Arya a bit, and watching how she deals with trauma and conflict outside of her training, so that also inspired some of this. Of course, I can only dream of writing these characters in the same manner as GRRM, but a thanks to him for creating them all and I will do my best to keep them as true as I can. 
> 
> I could never hope to successfully and elaborately string this world and all of its plots together, so I'm not going to attempt to cover it all in fear of butchering it. 
> 
> Title is inspired by the song 'As it Was' by Hozier.
> 
> Thanks for coming to check the story out, hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Just a disclaimer, relationship tags will come to fruition but aren't necessarily always at the forefront of the story and will all take time to develop!)

 

  _The shape that I'm in now is shaping the doorway_

\- Hozier,  _As it Was_

 

 

West.

It only took a day in a partially restored Maidenpool to decide, and even then her mind was half made up before her boots touched the ship's ramp. She’d hoped it be north, though if she went north there’d be no one to hold the keep once she took it from within. Another would come instead. However, the idea of the true Arya Stark arriving where it was said she had run from was tempting if only to see the faces...

Temptation was permitted now; she was Arya Stark so much that she allowed her face to be her own.  It would be wrong, even for secrecy sake to keep her true self from landing back on home soil.

Not home. Home was north and she would go west. Less a Tully than a Stark perhaps, she would do it to avenge her mother and brother, to be there at last, now when there was the possibility of influencing the situation, of spilling Frey blood atop that of the Stark’s. She was not avenging her uncle taken to Casterly Rock, nor her grand-uncle who apparently fled both the Twins and Riverrun. From what she had learned of the man she wondered how it had surprised anyone.

"He'd be a fool to show his face."

"A smart man would take a ship to Braavos and leave this shit heap."

"Not sure a smart man's the same as a stubborn ass of a man."

It was unclear if the people were speaking of the Blackfish, it seemed it had been some time since he was last seen. The subject mattered little, the attitude of the folk around the port town was similar.

"Connington's brought a pretender, wonder if he knows it."

"A deckhand from Pentos told me he'd seen the dragons."

Apprehension, fear, uncertainty. All dangerous and contagious. The people of Maidenpool had been tossed about on a whim, their homes burned and then restored, their lords cowering in fear and then celebrated with their pledges to the Crown.

Arya Stark had learned much in that single day, awake from one morning until the next, unable to sleep with the thoughts of what she would accomplish. King’s Landing was close, but if she went straight she would cause only more chaos.

Chaos yields chaos. Better to be systematic, precise, it had been practiced and it had been a lesson well learned, though the world had yet to heed it.

Kill Cersei in this moment and little would happen. Aegon, this supposed Aegon might move in, or the silver haired Daenerys, the Breaker of Chains may decide to liberate the capital. Neither would care for the North; neither would spare a singular thought towards to helping the North achieve the justice they deserved.

Frey’s first. The Riverlands were a ruin when she left and it sounded that nothing had changed. Great houses too weak to do anything but survive themselves. Arya didn’t care about the Riverlands. With the Frey’s gone, keeps would be passed hand to hand or to whoever could raise the militia to take it and no one in the land had the will or the gold. With the Frey’s gone there would no longer be a house of wavering loyalty, of cravens waiting in the shadows to watch for a victor and swiftly call themselves his ally. Lords and ladies would be forced to stand for what they were or be bought, and what better way to root out the thankless. The entire realm could do without the Freys, and most importantly, they had to die for their deeds.

She did not have their names still, but it mattered little. There would likely never be such an opportunity again, not if she wanted to kill Cersei, if she wanted to go north, if the Targaryens were going to press rebellions of their own.

A horse was simple enough to swipe from its post in the morning, as were some coins from drunken men from the inn she had frequented for whispers.

She thought of many things as she went west that day, one perhaps more important than the others. A pack of wolves creating their own justice in the Riverlands, some reports had them in the crownlands. Arya was part of it some nights, though the closer she came to Westeros the less frequently her wolf-dreams came, and she realized for the first time how desperate she had been for them. Those dreams had been the tightly bound tether to Arya Stark even when a girl was Mercy, when she was Beth. She didn't like to think on what it meant for that bind to slacken and for her mornings to be filled with a heart thrumming from mundane dreams of human revenge.

Perhaps if the wolves were in the Riverlands still Nymeria would come to her rather than the other way round. Perhaps, with Nymeria closer she could know if there were other bigger wolves to run with still…

_A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell_ , she had told the kindly man before making her final departure. Surely someone similar to herself would come. But she was no longer acting for them, the gifts she would bestow were not in the name of any gods.

There had been faces in Maidenpool that she recognized at the inn, and as she rode slowly, in keeping the pace of other travelers, she thought of them. She'd not heard them, and it was difficult to know if they were faces she knew from her past, or through her dreams. There had been other faces, unknown, new, seeking, who allowed their eyes to fall on her. No longer was she attempting to pass as a boy, but the short and uneven state of her hair may have confused them, especially when she offered the sweetest of her smiles to turn them away. Her body had changed much since she was in this land, and only those who had known her before, _truly_ known her would recognize her now.

It was possible those people at the inn knew her, both were dressed roughly though they each had longswords strapped to their hips, the design of which she couldn't properly see from a distance. But they were gold, gold could be Lannisters. Gold could be any number of noblemen or knights who she had encountered since leaving Winterfell.

If she had not been listening to the conversations around her, Arya might have been able to see how the people's mouths had moved, she might have known some of their words. If only she could be a thousand eyes and a thousand ears all at once…

Arya's two ears and two eyes and the quivering air around her was enough to make her aware that she was being followed. Riding at a slow place amongst others leaving and entering Maidenpool made it simple for someone to track her, but also should have created difficulties for anyone less skilled. They practiced great caution however, a glance over her shoulder and a flit along the lines of travelers did not reveal who it may be, only the group they were amongst, but each layer of her skin seemed to prickle with anticipation.

She continued on, and noted how the winds rose and fell with greater fluctuation as the day passed, from time to time a mammoth gust would pick up the hems of traveler's cloaks and lady's dresses, though mostly those which were already threadbare and unable to battle against the elements.

_When winter comes they will die_ , Arya thought. They should go south. To the Reach if they wished for food and sun that was much needed before retreating indoors for months. Something about this wind was different, aggressive and promising to maintain its grip. Even when sun slipped from behind lower hanging sea-grey clouds it was not warm enough to counter the torrents.

Arya guessed it may be a true winter, a real winter, long and sustained, the sort from Old Nan's tales where babes were born and died in darkness, where children grew old without having seen true light. It was enough to fight the clenching in her stomach that pulled at her as she thought of her trackers.

Winter was hers. Winter was for the Starks. She was meant to be here for it, to do as she had intended as it settled, first with a fresh gentle blanket of snow, next with whipping blizzard winds that carried a thousand icy blades, lastly with a sun that refused to be seen.

Confidence bloomed within her, apprehension receding. Arya grabbed the small purse of gold and silver dragons in hand and deftly untied the opening with one hand, taking two coins for herself before tossing it into the road ahead of her.

It took a moment for anyone to notice, she feared that it had been a terrible mistake, but then a small child dressed in tattered layers, clutching his father's hand called out what he had seen.

_Money_.

Arya had passed the scattered coins when more people descended upon them, and in that moment she was able to find the heads of two who were utterly uninterested.

Blonde, both were blond with shorter hair. One was rather unkempt in appearance, shaggy hair that seemed darker, perhaps from a lack of washing or form being dyed. The other much blonder, golden and shining despite the bleak roads and the muted green of the grasses around them. That one had blue eyes, bright and lively like the clearest parts of the sea, blue eyes which Arya caught for a breath.

Arya dashed off of her horse, sliding from the saddle and snatching her small bag of belongings all in one fluid movement, crouching low as she landed with one hand on Needle. She kept somewhat hidden behind the crowd that was now fighting over the last few coins, some claiming they had held a coin before it was snatched from their hands. Screaming and cursing had erupted, though it seemed that in the Riverlands, or at least in these parts, there was a lack of authority to control such a situation, no soldiers were visible save for the two Arya was attempting to evade, and even they wore no sigils, their amour was worn and dented and discoloured.

There was a ditch just north of the road, Arya found herself crouching in it, water seeping into her worn leather boots, through the weak stitching and a few worn sections where there was little enough to keep even the breeze out. There were outcrops of trees every so often, and further from the road were hills and villages and keeps.

Tucking the leather pouch under the tie she'd roughly attached to her breeches to keep them up, Arya turned within the ditch and began sneaking down its length, back east, cringing with each squelch, though the noise was easily drowned out by the growing mob of voices. She suspected the coin had been grabbed, claimed, but that the conflict had come to blows… not what she had intended. Not fully. But it was a welcome distraction.

She peered back above the ditch as the din dissipated into the distance.

No riders. Not the soldiers at least, other riders were reigning their steeds to a stop to be observe their forward path, but the two tracking her had likely moved ahead to where she had abandoned the road.

Patience.

It took a considerable amount.

Arya made her way back to Maidenpool before nightfall, eager to make her attempt again in the morning with new coin and a fresh horse. With a face.

Arya Stark would end the Freys, but she would be another until the finale moment.

A different inn this time. _The Pink Crab_ near the Fool's Gate, closer to the walls and edge of the city than those in the center.

Most men inside were armed, though none with longswords so nice as the two soldiers. The crowd was bawdier, loud. Using one of her final coins, Arya purchased ale, ignoring the slow gnawing in her gut. Food could wait. It had waited much longer; it was unreasonable for her body to be reacting so.

She needed a face. It would be easy to find one here, men and a few women too drunk to speak or stand, much too greedy with flesh and food and ale alike. She only had to watch.

A man in leather armour, short, but broad and allowing his hand to rest on a girl near Arya's age sitting down the bench with a number of more drunken fools and whores. She may have been a whore, she was not acting it, her body tensing into a straight rod as he squeezed at her thigh above her skirts.

"I'll have you again," he whispered. Arya focused enough to see the words his lips formed, though it took an inward reminder that his words would be Common and not Braavosi.

Arya finished her ale at the bar, and slinked from her stool, setting one foot down and then the other, shoes now dry enough not to leave a trace on the floor.

The girl was unwilling, but when the man grabbed her arm, leaving his own quieter compatriots, she conceded and rose.

Arya's eyes followed before her feet did, the girl tore her arm from the man's hand as they neared the entrance, pushing around a group of boisterous newcomers who ran their eyes down the girl's form. The man didn't attempt to grab at it again, instead placed both of his hands on the small of her back, ushering her forward while pressing words into her ear, his mouth at her jaw.

It was difficult to read, perhaps they were connected beyond payment, Arya knew it was not a typical interaction, she _knew…_

A single step away from her seat and Arya found herself on the floor, her elbow smashing into the barstool on the way down so that it beat her further into the ground as it fell onto her chest.

She struggled for a breath, a moment where the world was black and her ears seared with pressure and a sudden splitting ringing that was all too familiar. Had she been dragged down? Had she slipped? How could she be so stupid to slip?

"A Stark, just as we thought…" someone seemed to grumble, extremely close to her ear so that she felt the hot breath.

Arya made to stand but there were a number of hands on her, strong and forceful and there was a sinking sensation as though the ground were fresh soil drawing her into its depths.

Her left arm was pinned, and her right arm ached from the collision into the seat and then into the floor, but not so much that she couldn't grip at Needle.

It was all she needed.

Her vision returned but it didn't matter, the thin blade had poked straight through the chest of a man directly above her, unfamiliar as anyone else in the inn, with tanned skin and dark features, a hood. Blood spurt from his mouth onto her face and neck, a faint splatter rather than a stream thankfully, she couldn't afford for something else to add to the blur…

As another man grabbed at her arm to pin it down, she was able to slash Needle once more before it clattered from her hand. A precise slash, that could have made any Septa proud if it were a true needle and thread across taut material in a hoop.

There was much more blood this time, a few shouts flew up into the air and Arya kicked at those around her, flailed hoping to catch them somewhere tender, between joints, in the balls, anywhere, but it was futile.

She was just a girl. A girl who could kill but who could not fight, not against at least four grown men who had their full strength and their own intentions.

"It looks like her," someone said from above and behind, quiet and mournful, not at all angered or panicked as the other men or patrons were. A crowd was gathering near, Arya sensed it as the floor shook with their movements, their chairs scraping harshly along the worn floorboards that had likely seen much worse than she had done.

When they tried to pull a hood over her head she bit at the hands near her face, though another set wrenched her own together and began binding them with thick, roughly twisted rope that pricked at her skin the moment the two met. She gnashed at the men, attempting to understand her wolf dreams, the primal sensation of tearing flesh and ending a life with teeth alone, though for a human it was in vain.

"Take the sword," the one who had spoken quietly ordered.

They quickly decided to forgo the hood, Arya gave out a laugh as they tugged her into an upward position, though turning her to face the door quickly enough made her struggling vision blur further and her head feel ready to twist off her neck and fall to the ground for how heavy it was.

_The hood mightn't be necessary_ , she thought glumly as four men, two grabbing her wrists and pulling her forward, two grabbing her upper arms and pushing her ahead, forcing her from the establishment. Every part of her body suddenly ached, there was an intense sensations slicing through her arms and legs, in the very core of the bones as she made to move her head, the motion sending her stomach into a frenzy, and her knees to itchy with weariness.

She tried to focus, wondering if they may have put something in her ale, if they were with the two soldiers earlier, if the barkeep was with them. Arya had to know where they were going, who they were.

She gave them no response when they had said the name Stark, though when she tried to understand who her captors might be the list of Stark enemies was unexpectedly endless.

Within a few steps from _The Pink Crab_ , the orange lights of lanterns or fires of those peddling in the streets made it more difficult to understand her surroundings. But they were bright enough in a singular moment to catch the eye of someone, a group of three walking past, staring.

Purple eyes. Blue eyes that were deep, deep like the night sky, but with the tinge of purple the same as a sunset.

She recognized them, her brain struggled to attach a name, everything was striking about the man, known though changed with time.

He had noticed her as well, though a moment too late.

Her name was spoken. _Arya_. Or perhaps whispered. Or mouthed. Or perhaps she had wanted him to call out for her, it was imagined with thanks to whatever the men dragging her had given her. But maybe they hadn't given her anything, perhaps it was that she hadn't eaten and the ale was stronger than she knew…

Arya made a struggle once more, channeling each bit of energy and will she could into her core and into her shoulders as she wrenched her arms from the men.

She was free, but only for a moment, the force of her movement and the whirring inside of her skull sent her to the ground once more and then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it down here!
> 
> Just a note on the events of this fic:
> 
> I haven't gotten into the books in a while, and at that listened to audiobooks for some, so some details could be off, though I'm doing my best to research characters and events as they come up. I'll say that things which are off are just part of the alternate universe aspect  
> More about where we are in terms of timeline will be revealed as they story goes on, though book!Arya's timeline is fast-forwarded a bit of course. I'd reveal more here, but info will be woven into the story as much as possible.
> 
> Let me know how you feel about this concept and chapter one:)


	2. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya both finds and loses herself.

 

_Broken open and scattered on the table / another year over and another shoot grows_

\- Ye Vagabonds, _Pomegranate_

 

 

Arya had spent a significant amount of time feigning weakness whenever someone had entered her chambers in attempts to speak with her. Discomfort and disorientation had been the reality of her time as a captive thus far, but her head was slowly clearing. She was unsure of how long it had been, it felt that she slept through a day or so, but the lighting entering her room was perpetually grey or black and it was difficult at moments to tell if it was night or day.

She recalled little of the journey itself, only hooded figures, then laying in a hammock that swung with the ship and the throbbing in her arm and head, and a new tightness in her chest that made her wretch endlessly. At some point on the ship, someone had whispered their destination, spoken with surprise and relief.

_Storm's End._

Now, with a clearer head, when she closed her eyes she could hear new voices speaking of her.

"Faces."

"It’s not as though she came here to kill me."

"We can't know that."

"They found her in bloody Maidenpool, Jon. If she is wearing a face, a Stark face, then I'd say it is likely she was heading North, or to an ally of the Starks."

"Few and far between.... If she is not wearing a face, if she is of the North then she is of great value, and she’d spend half her life trying to find someone willing to turn against the Boltons."

"I will see to her once more. Speculation has no use, not until she speaks. Both of you should go to the Martell contingent, they've waited long enough. And take mind not to speak of the girl."

"The last time Starks, Targaryens and Martells shared a roof it did not end well. I may not have been there, Haldon, but I need no reminding."

The third voice speaking of Martells belonged to the only person whose face she had seen, Haldon, a middle-aged man in maester's robes though without a chain who had placed food and drink at her bedside, ask her to drink certain potions, all of which Arya had refused despite her stomach aching. She did however take the offered water after the man had proved it to be safe to drink. He was the one who had bound her right forearm tightly. It was difficult to move for the first day or so and when she had hissed with deep thrumming ache upon waking to him tending to it, he had told her it that she'd likely cracked the one of the bones.

_"Shouldn't be too much of a bother, I can see that you prefer your left to your right,"_ he had said, leaving the room.

Now, Haldon’s voice and the others were not outside of her door and Arya could not fully understand how she heard them, or where they might be.

She didn't know Storm's End at all. The moment the ground was steady beneath her feet she had tried the lock of the door, but found it barred from the opposite side. There was nothing in the small stone room save for a chamber pot, a decently padded bedroll and smelly pillow and a damp hearth with a weak flame. Arya knew that if she miraculously slipped from the room, she could not hope to navigate her way out.

There was a singular window, high up and much taller than she, and framed with crossing steel bars. When she stood at the door Arya could see that the window looked only onto a grey stone wall quite a distance away, which accounted for the lack of discernable light entering the room. It was then that she recalled something about Storm's End’s fortifications, a famed curtain wall, though anymore details eluded her. It was something she'd likely heard from Robb or Jon's lessons, either listening at the door or hearing them chatter about it over food.

Thinking of her brothers made her heart ache and she feared for a moment that she was meant to be remembering a different family, a different upbringing. But no. She was Arya. Robb and Jon, and Rickon and Bran were her brothers. She was going to avenge Robb and from there maybe she would go to the Wall and see Jon and then she would go kill Cersei Lannister. It had been so easy on the ship from Braavos to believe crossing off the names could be her only focus, but being back… Robb may be dead but she couldn't forget the Twins and she couldn't ignore how she longed for Jon, especially knowing exactly where he was.

She'd had time to reflect on her mistake at Maidenpool, identified by three separate groups of people within her first day back. It should have been impossible. The first pair still remained mysterious, and it seemed her captors were of the Golden Company, but how they had recognized her was beyond comprehension, the closest she'd ever come to them was hearing of some old defectors in Braavos. Then there was the final person who recognized her, with the purple eyes…

Ned Dayne. It had to have been him, she couldn't recall meeting another appearing so Valyrian in Westeros, though the Dornish were not from the old city. But he was bearded, a pale stubble and he was dirty and was thinner, though much older looking than the boy she'd last seen.

Arya's mind wandered to the brotherhood, to Beric Dondarrion, because Beric wasn't with his squire and from the little she recalled, she couldn't imagine the boy wanting to leave his side. Dead then. But how could a man with a thousand lives die? Thoros would be dead as well, he'd not have given up recovering his friend. The Hound would be thrilled, though thinking of him Arya hoped he had died, she hadn't heard his name so surely it was so. Though others might've died that she'd known, perhaps Gendry…

_He chose to stay_ , Arya recalled, though the accusation didn't stop her from unexpectedly wanting to cry. He'd been her friend, a true friend and she couldn't recall that last time she'd had one.

Ned Dayne was honourable, perhaps he was returning to Dorne, no longer having a knight to serve. Honourable, just like the other Ned Arya had known. Even know recalling how the boy's name made her feel struck her.

Ned Stark was an honourable man. Everyone said so. Perhaps it was in the name.

Arya shook her head as she sensed footfalls coming to the chamber, though the same action reminded her that there was a small lump above her left ear. She suspected she'd hit it in her fall, and that was what had so shaken her. The dull pain made it difficult to concentrate on any sort of plan, made it difficult to mask the yearning her very being had for the memories of her brothers and father, her mother and even Sansa for brief moments.

“You _are_ awake, as I expected,” Haldon said as he entered, one hand in the door handle with his head craned over a roll of parchment. His hair was tied back and not yet grey but a dark brown, unlike the maesters Arya knew of who were usually quite old. There was a pinching sensation at the centre of her very chest, she realized how the half-pulled up hair reminded her of her father's, though Haldon's was more severe than Ned Stark's had.

The man shut the door behind him, which was quickly barred from the outside, the sliding of wood on wood outside telling her so and he came to stand near her low bed, watching with quizzical eyes.

Maesters were always cleverer than they had any right being. Arya recalled how Luwin often saw through her veiled attempts at being a lady and straight to her desire to be amongst her brothers in the yard or even at their own books. She suspected this man might be no different, the glimmer when casting his knowing gaze upon her reminded her of Winterfell’s lost maester… killed by Theon. Thinking of the traitor may have betrayed some sort of fury, Arya felt herself frown and the maester chuckled.

“You seem to be attempting to starve yourself out instead of giving us any sense of who you are,” Haldon said. “I suspect you have your own tasks at hand, however. And that this may be of interest to you.”

The man placed the scroll in her lap, rightly assuming that she could read, and Common at that. Arya thought of pretending that she was in fact illiterate, she knew this was little more than ploy to give confirmation to what he suspected. But she saw her own name written out and couldn't divert her eyes.

_The Arya Stark married to Ramsay Bolton is no other than Jeyne Poole daughter of Vayon Poole, former steward of Winterfell under Eddard Stark. She has thus escaped the Bolton’s clutches and revealed her identity to us, claiming that a close few knew she was not who the Bolton’s claimed her to be. She was sold to the Boltons by Lord Petyr Baelish under the pretenses that she was the younger Stark girl._

Stannis Baratheon had signed the letter with a list of his assumed titles, and Arya wondered for a fleeting moment if he would help the true Arya Stark. But she was in the Stormlands, with his enemies and he was in the North.

“Sent here for Ser Gilbert Farring, Stannis’ castellan who had held Storm’s End for some time. Evidently, Stannis hasn’t an idea who holds his childhood home now,” Haldon said.

Arya did her best to betray nothing. She had found the hitch she needed to detach herself, she felt the intense swelling of nostalgia for the North subside and an icy, flat steeliness slowly returning to her, sealing off her heart. She'd been so long without it, so eager to leave the House of Black and White, and so unnerved with her own return that there had been many moments she’d allowed her guard to fall. It couldn’t continue. It would take focus to return it to the strength it had been.

“Word is you look like a Stark. Worse yet, word is that you resemble the late Lyanna Stark.”

Haldon watched her with care in his eyes and took the scroll back from her lap. “If you are a Stark, Arya or not, your value will not be underestimated. If you are Faceless Man as your belongings suggest, the risk of having you within these walls will not be underestimated. If the latter is true, I fear we cannot trust your words even if you decide to speak. However, if you give us enough reason to trust, perhaps we may find common ground. I would suggest doing so soon, it is unlikely there will be a way out of these walls save for over or under into the sea in the coming weeks.”

Haldon stood from his lowered position, Arya’s stomach made it known how it desired for more food, though she doubted her rejected meals would come in any form. Skip a meal and you will be punished, that was how it had been as a child, though the lesson considerably less harsh.

“I’d like to speak to the Prince,” Arya said surprisingly herself with the demand. _What am I going to do with a prince?_ If he even was a prince. She’d heard the stories of little Aegon whose head was nothing more than a mess of brains and blood and bone when the Mountain was through with him.

Mercy had ended Raff the Sweetling, Arya supposed if this Aegon were true, he may be happy to hear that she too wished the Mountain and his men dead. But Arya kept her tongue and made to keep her eyes wide and searching as the Maester frowned. It was a small frown, barely there and the left corner of his lips curled back into a gentle smile a moment later.

“And what has led you to believe that there is a prince here?” Haldon made for the door in a sweeping movement, his robes giving a sense of grandeur especially compared to Arya in her ragged, sweat logged, musty clothing.

“I know that someone claiming to be Aegon Targaryen is here and that Jon Connington, former Hand of the King has brought him. I know that your name is Haldon and that there is a septa who has travelled with you and that your spy master is part of the Golden Company. I know that you have just taken Storm’s End and that a Tyrell army is coming to attempt to take it instead.”

It was difficult to contain her words when she had so many, it was wearing to play an innocent who had little knowledge when she held much more than anyone could possibly assume. Arya had seen and heard a tens of conversations around the keep and down hallways. Her eyes and ears were perched in the rafters or lurked around corners and sometimes ran off at the scratching of a mouse.

_Cat of the Canals_.

Haldon stood at the door, his gaze even and measured as though she’d spoken of the weather and nothing more.

"Some would consider your boldness admirable, others would warn you to still your tongue if you intended to keep it. We are not interested in hurting little girls here, however dangerous they may be. I will tell my friends what you have told me, though if they agree to meet, you can expect to be subjected to a thorough bath beforehand."

 ***

The septa came to scrub her down, and the woman seemed at first like any other septa, speaking endlessly about Arya's filth, her bruises and scrapes, as though it had not been the men the woman accompanied across the sea who had delivered such blows to Arya.

This was not something Arya had missed, and was never something that she had expected to. Upon leaving Braavos, if she had been told she would be at the whims of a septa within days of landing on Westerosi soil, she might've felt compelled to remain.

_Septa Lemore_ , Arya had heard them say, and frankly, she'd been astutely ignoring the woman so much that she was unsure if the septa had introduced herself at all. They had brought a large basin full of steaming water to Arya's chambers, and then barred her and Lemore within. She could have done something to escape, but her arm ached, and as annoying as the woman was, there was no need to hurt her. Arya guessed she would have to talk her way out of Storm's End, or else spend enough time through enough eyes to find a way out.

"I don't expect that you'd have any desire to wear a dress," the septa said, stepping back to admire her handy-work, and Arya supposed her cleaned naked form would have been a sight to see compared to how she had arrived. Lemore had even taken care to remove the bandages on Arya's arm, which was clearly swollen and bruised beneath, and wrap them freshly. "We're running low on such things to be honest. Bandages that is. And dresses as well, especially for someone so small as you are, though I'm not sure there were many to begin with."

"Breeches," Arya kept her face stern as she could, and was relieved when the septa nodded in agreement. She had expected the woman to be leading her into a comprehensive admonishment for dressing as she had.

"We have plenty of those. Outside of some of the household, there's not a woman or girl on this blasted outcrop."

No women. Arya had seen how sellswords behaved, well, how many men behaved and wondered how the septa had handled herself amongst them. It was unlikely many of the soldiers cared about the Seven or their servants, meaning they respected those in at the helm of the campaign enough to heed their respects and wishes concerning the septa.

Lemore disappeared, leaving Arya naked, shivering slightly with the salty sea air flowing freely into her small room and the fire too small to supply any sort of sustained heat.

She reappeared minutes later with a set of clothing as well as a ragged towel, which she offered Arya with a slight frown.

"Seems our more comfortable selection of linens has been refiled through already, my apologies. You should eat when you are offered, I doubt they would've knocked you so easily to your feet if you had a bit more to you. And I'm not sure when they'll be offering again, food, not a beating. If the next few weeks go poorly, I suspect we'll be wishing for an Onion Knight of our own."

Arya didn't reply, and by the septa's tone she knew that the woman did not expect her to. Lemore called for the door to open, she hoisted the bucket herself.

There was an opening to dart out, but Arya couldn't will herself to do it.

_What is wrong with me?_

A girl would have done so, Mercy, Cat and even blind Beth would have. But Arya needed to get Needle and her bag, and she needed to make it out alive and to the Freys …

Two guards in golden breastplates stood outside, Arya's first true glimpse of the famed Golden Company, but each made to slide their daggers from their sheaths, the polished metal winking.  Arya realized her feet had moved her closer, but had the care to stop before her own mind had decided to.

"She's not going to try, boys," Lemore said sweetly to the guards, setting the basin down across the threshold, sloshing blackened water over the sides and onto the wooden floor. "No wonder she was able to take two of your lot down, underestimating her. Now you think she’s a monster who will strike without thinking. I'm of the mind to ask Griff just how much each of you is receiving in pay, _Golden _Company my arse."__

 

 ***

 

The clothing was likely made for a boy of twelve or thirteen, and one working in the kitchens or stables who had no need for finery. The breeches were tight in the hips, and Arya recognized –not for the first time – how her body had changed from that of the girl she'd been when she left. Though clearly not enough to keep anyone from calling her a little girl. She had to roll up the cuffs of the breeches to above her own boots which she'd been allowed to keep with her throughout this strange trial. The arms of the oat coloured, itching rough-spun tunic were much too long, and she rolled those as well above her wrists. She'd had a worn leather jacket in Maidenpool, taken from some poor soul in Braavos who no longer had need of it, but it seemed she'd not be rewarded with that just yet.

 

They put her hands in chains before leaving the chambers, the weight on her right arm making it ache more, though the bandages were tight enough to make it less than it could have been. One guard's jaw tensed and his eyes betrayed a sort of apology when she grimaced, though Arya did not act on her sudden whim to show him just why he should not be feeling such. These people hadn't an idea what to do with her, that much was very clear. Fearing her seemed unnecessary, pitying her as well. Haldon had the right of it, measuring her character before judging it outright.

 

Arya remembered the halls, each turn that she was lend around, down a flight of stairs, across a landing that looked onto an entrance area of some sort. Down more stairs, enough that she suspected they'd gone underground or close to it, perhaps to another building, and then they were ascending for long enough that Arya felt herself tiring. She'd not seen an exit, and she reasoned they had intended for it to be that way.

 

They brought her to a room guarded by a man in a white-cloak, a Kingsguard she supposed, and the man stood quite proudly despite not serving an _actual_ king, and obviously oblivious to the true dishonourable habits of the Kingsguard in King's Landing. Arya wondered, if he knew the sorts of things they'd done if he would still be so eager to be the first of his kind under a new king. He was quite noticeable not only for his white cloak, but his mess of red hair and spattering of freckles that made him look more a boy than a knight, though he was clearly a man grown.

 

Arya found herself laughing at the strange assembly of people she'd encountered thus far. Perhaps they would all be underestimated as she was. If someone had lined up the half-maester, the cursing septa, the unnerved guards, the fresh-faced Kingsguard, an exiled Lord and a supposed lost prince, and asked if anyone believed they could take the entire realm back, few would agree that they would succeed. And yet here they were, in Storm's End, the seat of the very house who had ousted the Targaryens two decades previous.

 

There were three people already in the room, which was a small solar of sorts, definitely not that which would have been used by the Lord of the keep. She thought of the Martells and wondered if the Dornish had been kept in the kinder parts of the keep.

 

The table only sat eight and at the far end was the Targaryen boy. She didn’t need to look around further to know. A strange part of Arya was rather excited. Despite the terrible things the dragonlords had done, she felt as though she were meeting part of a myth, a person from legend, related to those she had so admired in many heroic tales. Of course, her favourite story was of Nymeria and was something she would very much have asked the Dornish about if they were to meet in other circumstances.

 

_Aegon Targaryen_ did appear a boy, younger than the guard outside, though not childish. If it were the true Aegon, she had figured he’d be older than Jon and Robb, though perhaps it was his lack of facial hair and clear bright eyes that made him seem more youthful. The room was lit with orange flames from the sconces on the walls and a hearth to the far right. There was no additional lighting, no windows to be seen, so it was difficult to tell the exact shade of his eyes, but they were a very deep colour that made Arya feel she was peering into a gemstone. His hair was silver, more so than Ned Daynes, more so than any Valyrian she had seen in Essos, though his skin had a sort of olive tone, perhaps from his Dornish mother or perhaps from a childhood in a hot climate. His brows were darker than his hair, though still pale, as were his lashes.

 

The supposed prince wore Targaryen red and black, a leather slim fitting frock with blood red fastenings, the piece reaching his knees and revealing his somewhat lanky figure. There were no dragons to be seen on his clothing, perhaps not wishing to overindulge in his heritage quite yet. He did not stand, and neither did Haldon or the other man, who she expected was none other than Jon Connington.

 

This man looked like an aged lion of sorts, a griffin Arya supposed, if he were in fact the Griff she’d heard mentioned. Grizzled and worn, but he too had remarkable eyes, though much more unsettling than the boy’s, a pale blue like the shade of an ice floe. They reminded her of Roose Bolton’s own pale eyes, and immediately found herself distrusting the man. He had no kindness or humanity in his gaze, not as Lemore or Haldon did, and none of the curiosity that she saw within the prince.

 

Haldon gestured for her to sit at the opposite end of the Prince, and doing so she allowed her cuffed wrists and chains to clatter loudly atop the table, ignoring the shudder up her forearm. Now that she was in the prince’s presence – she couldn’t bring herself to consider him Aegon, yet – it was easier to focus on the task at hand.

 

“We’re not relieving you of the manacles, if that is your intention.” The prince spoke first, his voice clear and resonating in the small chamber. It was deeper than she expected, though again he was likely older than he appeared. “From what I hear, they could be the only thing saving us from a swift and unexpected death. I’m compelled to believe that you _did_ indeed kill two of our men in the blink of an eye.”

 

Arya didn’t speak for a beat, cocked her head slightly to the right with a touch of insolence.

 

“You need better men.”

 

Haldon gave a small smirk, the boy-prince raised his pale brows and Connington gave a profound sigh.

 

“We’ve been told that you have heard many of our conversations,” Connington spoke next, clearly intending to lead the discussion himself, impatient with Arya’s attitude. “I have no way of explaining how you are able to listen across a keep from your own cell.”

 

Arya didn’t respond, unsure of his point, though she had to admit her abundance of knowledge was bound to seem suspect. 

 

“It only means you cannot keep anything from me while I am your prisoner,” she said after a moment of contemplation.

 

“Haldon has told us that you are aware we think you to either be a Stark or a Stark imposter. A girl of your talents likely understands what that means for us,” Connington said. He was biting back words; she could see he was attempting to be more patient than he desired.

 

“If you let me go I won’t be a bother to you. Your prince was right when he said my business is north of here,” Arya said, nudging her chin across the table. Her words made them all shift. “I cannot listen to you if I’m not close.”

 

“We’re not just going to release you,” said the prince. “It seems that Arya Starks are highly sought after in Westeros. You must know this.”

 

She had multiple uses, of course she knew it.

 

“Why were your men out in Maidenpool hunting for Stark mummers?”

 

“They weren’t,” Connington said, though didn’t care to elaborate. His gaze rested on her, he did not make to hide is scowl. 

 

“They overheard others,” the prince offered. “Two people, both blonde, Lannisters perhaps who were speaking to each other. Our men said they heard that the man was positive he had seen Arya Stark. My men followed them, as they followed you. Our few however, were less foolish, and tracked you back to Maidenpool once you had realized the others were on your tail.”

 

The blondes were not theirs then. She should have asked why the Golden Company was in Maidenpool, though it was unlikely they would provide an answer.

 

“Do you know who those two were?” Arya found herself asking instead.

 

The Prince shook his head. “Again, it seems Stark girls are in high demand.”

 

"One of yours said I look like _her_ ," Arya ventured further, she wanted them to admit what she already knew. "I doubt any man of the Golden Company has seen Arya Stark."

 

"You look like the woman who brought this house to its nearly-fatal end," Connington hissed, one gloved hand curling into a tight fist atop the table.

 

_She did not_. Arya found her familial devotion bubbling up in her stomach, and then her chest, and her tongue seemed to waggle in her mouth as the words overcame her.

 

"Your _father_ stole her and raped her!" Arya spat the accusations at the prince whose brows contorted in confusion. There was a flash in the Griffin's eyes, they grew wide. "The Mad King and pretty Prince Rhaegar were the end of your family, not the Starks."

 

Connington shut his eyes, shaking his head slowly, exhaling slowly. "You're right on one account, girl. But painfully wrong on the other. Just as she was. After her, I’d recognize a dose of Northern unpleasantness and arrogance for what it is anywhere in this damned world. You’ve done a woeful job of keeping yourself hidden, Arya Stark."

 

"Jon," this Aegon put a hand out to calm the man as Arya cursed inwardly as her resolve began to unravel.

 

“She was not arrogant!”

 

She'd always heard bits of Lyanna, of their similarities, and it had annoyed her more than anything, and made her sad on occasion, especially if the memory seemed to pain her father. With Connington suggesting that Lyanna had deserved her fate… Arya made to stand, but as she did, Connington shot from his own seat, both of the chairs clattering to the ground, Haldon and the Prince cringing with the sound. Haldon stood himself, though carefully and set each chair upright once more.

 

"You have no right to stand and tell me what was and was not!” Connington pointed at Arya, his words layered with venom. “You were not yet born, girl. Now sit your petulant ass down."

 

There was a strange fury in the man, for someone so old, so versed in adversity, Arya had expected more composure. She continued to stand, however.

 

The Griffin roared once more. "Are you or are you not Arya Stark of Winterfell? Daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark? Sister of the Young Wolf, the King in the North as they called him, slain at the Red Wedding? Sister of Sansa Lannister who seems to have done the only good in your family, killing the Usurper's supposed spawn and disappearing into the world… You, Arya Stark, are the sister of two boys burned in their own home, little princes in their own right. You are the half-sister of a bastard boy on the Wall, forgotten by his family. A bastard boy unwilling to join his own brother against the Lannisters who ruined your family."

 

The words were much louder than any spoken thus far, they were meant to be an assault on her ears and on her very heart itself, and Arya felt herself slipping.

 

_I am no one. I am just a girl._

 

It wasn't convincing, she couldn't persuade herself to deny what the Griffin had so plainly laid out. And somehow, it was his accusation against Jon, of Jon being a craven for not dying with the rest of them that turned the fissures in the wall around her very self into something far more serious and far more yielding with the added pressure.

 

"Its best to accept it," the prince said with a tone of warning, seated still with his hands folded in his lap, shifting as though somewhat bothered by the developing dialogue.

 

"Are you a Faceless Man?" It was the maester who spoke, having returned to his own chair. "Perhaps that will be a simpler place to start."

 

"No. Not anymore. I wasn't…" Arya didn't know how to answer, her steadfastness continuing to wane, any sense of control slipping through her fingers like smoke. She was far from completing her training when she left the House of Black and White, but she had watched and listened carefully in the days before, she had stolen and went with as much knowledge as she could, though of course some things were impossible to have learned. She couldn't glamour herself, not as others had. True Faceless Men used more than a face. "I wasn't sent here by anyone, and I was going North, as I said."

 

"And this is your true face?" Haldon asked, gesturing at her.

 

Arya nodded, her heart no longer racing as it had been, though a glance back at Connington did make it start again at a vehement pace.

 

"And how are you listening to us?" Haldon pressed next.

 

She didn't know how to explain, especially not to a maester who would not believe such things.  She thought of the cats coming to understand herself more, but surely they'd rid the keep of all the cats they could. She thought of Nymeria, the connection still seemingly weakening. "I have dreams."

 

"Starks are known to have had such dreams," Haldon raised his brows. "They say Robb Stark controlled his own wolf during his war, won battles because of it. I'm certain someone would have noticed a direwolf in our midst, however."

 

Again, with her family. It had been their tactic from the being, she realized. Saying her own name, the Stark name, her family’s names over and over. It was a shocking sort of interrogation that she could not have prepared for, not after years of denying that she was anyone, that she had any sort of human connection. But the kindly man had never made her deny her family by name. This was different, impossible to navigate. There must have been a hint of recognition her eyes at his words, she felt suddenly helpless as Haldon chuckled and Connington took his own seat again.

 

Arya sunk into hers, looking only at her hands as she felt the others share glances between themselves.

 

"I want to go North," she said, finding some sort of determination in her gut. "Keep the faces, keep the bag and whatever is in it. I just need the sword."

 

"If you're going North, with two sets of people in the Riverlands knowing exactly who you are, I would suggest you need the faces," the prince said with a very small smile. There was a gentleness about him that played out in plain contrast to the Griffin at his right, who seemed to bristle with the veiled offer.

 

Two sets. Arya didn't miss his words. So Ned Dayne _had_ said her name, perhaps his reveal had given the final confirmation that the Golden Company men had needed.

 

"If we allow you to go," the prince continued, "we will need something in return, of course."

 

"We have many of the same enemies," Arya said, though the three men gave slight collective shakes of their heads. She understood their meaning. "I cannot give you the North. The Boltons have it."

 

"How long do you think they keep hold with Stannis Baratheon claiming the Arya Stark now in his camp is false, and with sightings of you in the south?" Haldon asked. "Unless your sister rears her head once more, you are the remaining Stark."

 

She wanted to argue that Jon was, but she knew it to be futile, no one had ever considered him as such, not as much as she did.

 

"I'm going to kill the Freys," Arya admitted. It was no use to deny any further, they knew, _they knew_. "They betrayed my family, I saw what happened in the aftermath, I saw how they butchered them all, how they butchered Robb.... They've stood to the side in every battle waiting for the victor. Without the Frey hold of the Riverlands and their dishonor deciding wars they refuse to join, the North will remember their own strength and rise again."

 

"A hazard to us if they should do so unchecked," Connington said. "Though any Northern resurgence remains unlikely at this point, many houses seem to have scattered in a thousand directions. The end of the Freys however would weaken the Boltons, there has been discord amongst the two as well as the Manderlys as of late."

 

It was a near impossible situation, Arya wanted very badly to explain her sole intentions for returning to Westeros, and that they had not included the reunification of the North. She supposed she would merely take the first few steps necessary to drive Stark enemies from the land. But she had already exposed herself too much, she'd fallen so easily into their trap and did not wish to slip further.

 

"Show us that you can do as you say, that you can indeed change faces and hear through walls, that you can sneak into hostile territory and kill if needed," the prince proposed. "If I am to take the Iron Throne back, we will need the North at some point, and we do not wish to create more war, only to end it. If we assign you a task, here and now, and you accomplish it, you may go seek out your personal revenge. Despite our fathers fighting opposite one another in the Rebellion, we now have a number of common enemies. Perhaps, if you see to it that there are fewer of them, and you have helped us, I may be inclined to help you when the time comes."

 

"You can't help me," Arya snapped without thoroughly considering the offer. She didn't need to. No one in the North would trust the grandson of the man who had murdered Rickard and Brandon Stark, the son of the man who was the end of Lyanna Stark. Her own revenge was different than others in the North, but she could understand their position. More difficult to understand was this prince's ability to cast the pasts of their families' aside while his own advisor stiffened at the thought.

 

"Then you remain in your chambers," the prince said, sitting back in his seat. "It is my only offer. Help us, and we can help you."

 

"The Martells won't like it," Arya said, feeling herself wanting to get a rise out of them once more. She had to concede of course, but she would not make it so simple.

 

"The Martells don't like many things," Haldon half laughed half frowned. Connington seemed to hiss at the realization that Arya knew of their other visitors.

 

"The Martells hate the Lannisters," said the prince. "And they like to believe they're the only people with pretty girls capable of wielding a blade. If you complete this task, I will vouch for you before the Martells, my cousins are not stupid. They know that ending Lannister rule requires an uprooting in full. However, if you do not complete this task, or you go against what we have asked, they will hear of a Stark in our midst, and I'll allow them to do as they please."

 

Arya didn't like it. She didn't want to be associated with the Targaryen prince, or with the Martells or with anyone, truly. Her original endeavor was meant to be a task accomplished alone, her list was personal and not to be shared. She thought of Robb and his Westerling wife, of the Riverlands and their ancient rivalries. Her family did not appear to fare well when they were not connected with their allies by blood or by a deep understanding entrenched in the land itself.

 

But there was little choice, especially if she were to be locked in those damp chambers for eternity. They would never have to tell a soul that they had Arya Stark, no one would ever look to help her or search. Jon and Sansa, if she cared, would believe Arya dead or missing as they likely had for years. There could be rumours, but there would be little to found them on. She doubted Ned Dayne would be so stupid as to go about yelling her name again, or even to seek her out. For a moment, she had believed his recognition could have promised aid, but thinking upon it more, he had likely only been in shock to see someone he thought dead. 

 

"Tell me the task, and I will decide if I'd like to help," said Arya.

 

"You must agree first," the prince said with a frown, his brows knotted again. The discussion was noticeably out of the hands of both Connington and Haldon, neither privy to the plan in this Aegon's head, neither wishing to scold their prince in front of a high-born captive.

 

"I'm happy to sit in that shit room for months, listening to all of your little plans. And bide my time, wait until you've gone off to capture another keep, or reclaim that fucking throne, and then I'll make my way North. With all of your secrets and tricks. And the winds above The Neck will whisper about what this new Aegon Targaryen did to poor Arya Stark at Storm’s End."

 

Honestly, it was not a terrible alternative, but Arya knew herself well enough that waiting for such a time would likely drive her mad. Though, the implications in her propose words would be enough to drive anyone on either side mad.

 

The Prince chewed at the inside of his lips for a moment, Arya reflected that he should be better at hiding his own indecision if he wished to rule.

 

"Fine. You'll be taken back to your chamber, fed, and you'll have a request by nightfall."

 

Arya nodded in consent, and then the prince and his companions rose, Haldon gesturing for Arya to do the same.

 

"I'm surprised by one thing," the Prince admitted, his tone more relaxed with business concluded. "You've not asked if I can prove who I am. It's the very first thing that the Martells did."

 

She knew the words were a form of affirmation themselves, if the Martells hadn't believed him, they'd have left. Arya thought of the rumours of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. If such things were true, she expected that this silver prince would have another sort of battle on his hands before he could think to get North. If he were a dragon, Arya hoped such a thing would be proved or disproved then. Until then, it truly didn’t matter if he were a mummer or a toad or a lost-prince, all that mattered was doing what she could to leave.

 

"I'm not sure that I care," Arya said, catching his eyes and holding them as he absorbed her words, taking them as the small annoyance they were meant to be. Arya knew well purple eyes couldn't prove he was _the_ Aegon Targaryen, and still the light would not betray their true colour. She did not doubt however, that he truly believed himself to be who he claimed, and if there was anything false, it was from those who had raised him up instead.

 

Haldon moved to usher her to the door, and Arya stepped around her seat, remembered her courtesies at the last moment, though they were indistinguishable from another prod at _Aegon’s_ dignity. In her too big breeches and the tunic that swallowed most of her body, with her hands clamped together in front of her body, Arya gave the greatest flourishing curtsey that she could manage.

 

"Thank you for seeing me, _Your Highness_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!  
> Thanks for reading a second chapter, please leave some feedback and let me know what you think.  
> This was a decently quick update, and I can't guarantee they will all be like this, but I will do my best.  
> (Anyone catch a few choice words by Lemore and Aegon? Just me? )
> 
> Also, for ages, I'm going with show ages around Season 5/6 just to make sexual encounters less questionable (in terms of how I feel writing them). So Arya is 15-ish, Aegon 22-ish, Jon and Dany 21-ish etc.
> 
> Edit: Arya was not 'drugged' by Aegon's men in the previous chapter, just severely disoriented + lack of food and sleep.


	3. Arya III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya pulls herself together. Sort of.

 

_Conserve me, strange waters / Come and obey me, strange waters / Have it your own way_

_-_ Sufjan Stevens, Bryce Dessner, Nico Muhly & James McAlister, _Neptune_

 

 

"You'll tell us how you change faces,” said Aegon.

"No. I’ll show you by walking into a room with this face and leaving with another."

"One you have in the bag."

"Of course."

Arya worked to mask her displeasure at the prince assuming she would plainly explain her ways. His presumptuousness paired with her own minor apprehension made her uneasy. It wasn’t as though she took a vow to keep the secrets of the Faceless Men, but she had departed without leave, and if that weren’t enough to attract their ire, exposing their ways certainly could be. When examining the risks ahead, there was always a shadowy figure that she had to take into account should they wish to find her. 

Aegon stood in the doorway of her chambers, the door shut and barred once more as it had been with the half-maester, and Septa Lemore. The difference in this meeting was the red-headed Kingsguard, named Rolly Duckfield, who stood to the prince's right, and was half a head taller and considerably broader. Arya had smirked at the name and the man quickly explained how he'd had to pick a surname while in a field of ducks. If the story was meant for Arya to warm to him, it worked, though she doubted either the prince or the Kingsguard were so clever to try use Rolly Duckfield's chipper attitude as a weapon to draw people's trust.

She was speaking from the ground up at the prince. Reaction bid her to stand when he entered, though she quickly decided that she was not yet his subject and returned to her seat. Thus far, no one had enforced any formalities from her, and she had the distinct feeling that they were being cautious to not overstep in Westeros, aiming to inspire respect rather than command it.

Her informal hearing hours earlier had established that she mustn't give as easily as she had, so she held her ground now. Arya knew she’d been overconfident in coming back to Westeros, so assured of herself, and it had led to simple mistakes, leaving her vulnerable. Connington’s barrage had worked here because of it; it never would have in Braavos.

"That's not all you're asking," Arya said. The prince looked quite tall from her lowered vantage point, though even when she stood he was tall as a grown man should be. The sky outside was black, and the firelight in her chambers provided no clearer view of his eyes than the lighting in the solar. She did take notice, on this second visit, how his hair had been cropped short, and somewhat awkwardly, as though done hastily with a blade rather than scissors.

"Of course not. Perhaps you can think of this task as threefold."

"Perhaps you can shove it up your -"

"Do you want to be labelled as a Northern savage?" Aegon cut her off, his voice sharp and a touch agitated, he turned his head minutely with disbelief.

"Doesn't matter, I've been called worse. If you ask me to do three things, can't I ask you for two more?"

"No," the prince said. His hands were on his hips as though scolding a child, and Arya supposed that it may very much have been what he was feeling. It was clear that he wished to handle this precarious situation himself, neither of his advisors had accompanied him, and his Kingsguard hadn't said a word outside of explaining his naming origin. Perhaps he had been like Arya, feeling rather independent and powerful, only to be overturned by an unexpected opponent. "You're already tampering with the simplest of the three. Will you at least listen before you suggest another cavity for me to shove my plan into?"

Arya coughed out a laugh, attempting to hold it in.

_Don't laugh. He's trying to make you like him._

Perhaps he and Ser Rolly Duckfield were cleverer than either appeared.

"Continue," Arya narrowed her eyes, gesturing at the prince.  If he became king, she would be able to look back on this exchange and recount how she'd wrested the control of a simple conversation from his hands.

"I was going to ask you to tell us how you hear everything, but I suppose you'll just show us instead."

Having expected this, Arya nodded. "You have to tell me where you are."

She expected there were few cats about the keep, and that they mostly remained in the cellars and close to the ground where the rodents were likely to be found. However, when she tried to sleep she found herself following them around, and knew that a few of the household were fond of a particular feline and would allow it to follow them as they served food, or carried linens, or messages.

"Can you only do it asleep?" Aegon asked, and Arya was confused for a moment before recalling that she'd told Haldon she heard conversations through dreams.

"It's like sleeping, I suppose." Truly, she hadn't an idea of how to make it happen other than being very still, or what her body when her mind journeyed. "And the final bit?"

"Second to final."

Arya tensed. She should have known he'd take as much as possible, she was all but cornered and needed to agree to whatever he presented.

"There's a serjeant in the Golden Company. He's pinching more than he should, not just money, but food, other supplies. Not sure who it is, only that he has access others in the ranks do not. I'd like you to identify him."

"Not kill him?" Arya asked. “Don’t you have a spy master for this?”

Aegon took a step further into the room for some unexplained reason, and clasped his hands behind his back as he strode. Graceful, easy steps, like a prince. The only princes Arya had known were Joffrey and Tommen, and Joffrey had walked like Aegon, though preening and begging for attention like a bird in heat. Aegon seemed to do it simply because it was the only way he knew to walk. It was clear he'd been schooled from a young age to appear as regal as he did, it would not come naturally to a child raised outside of a royal setting.

"His eyes are outward. And no, no killing. I only require a name."

_A name_. If only he knew how skilled Arya was at compiling names.

"I can do that."

"Excellent. Once you've proven yourself within these walls, we will send you outside of them. Mathis Rowan had a small force outside of Storm's End when we came, and they fled when we came from the rocks. They'll return with Mace Tyrell's force in no less than three days. Now, we can likely hold out for quite a while in a siege considering the Reach's naval force is on its way back to defend Oldtown from Euron Greyjoy and our fleet is in the bay. Mace Tyrell will have no desire to sit outside of these walls and wait for his fleet to return, or to goad us into a fight. His daughter is to be on trial before the Seven, his youngest son is gravely injured at Dragonstone."

Margaery and Loras. Arya knew their names from her time in the Riverlands. Margaery married Joffrey instead of Sansa, for that she was grateful, though she suspected Sansa had been disappointed. And Loras Tyrell had caught Sansa's eye at the tourney, though Arya had heard a number of things that suggested he would had little interest in even the most striking woman.

"We need to break them from within. We could fight, we could lose men, and lose Reach men. But when the time comes, we will need the Reach and do not mean to make further enemies of them. My men can be brutal, it will be necessary, but I have no desire to slaughter these people now. And I'd like to have the Stormlands in hand in a timely manner. "

"The Tyrells are with the Lannisters," Arya argued.

"And they're beginning to regret it," Aegon said, though did not explain any sort of detail. "They're stretched. If we can make them fold and leave without considerable bloodshed, I will be pleased."

"You want me to twist the knife?"

"I want you to find where to stick it and then twist it. Every camp has a weakness, and with leaders like Rowan and Tyrell - who should by all means be at their wit's end - it should be simple enough to manipulate."

The prince had been walking towards the wall opposite the doorway, but turned left to face Arya as he finished speaking. There was an odd grin on his lips, a bit lopsided, and an ease in his expression that seemed to ask if the plan sounded familiar.

_It's what you've all done to me_.

The boy was smarter than he appeared, Arya decided, though would never tell him such a thing.

"And if it involves killing a lord?" Arya asked. "You'd want me to do that?"

"It shouldn't come to that. As I said, Tyrell and Rowan's resolve will likely be shot to all seven hells. Others will be patching up the holes. Of course, if you fail we merely hold out until they decide to leave. But this would be massive for us.”

Aegon watched her, his eyes had grown wider and there was a spark of anticipation in the air between them. Arya took the chance to stand, still ridiculous in her too-big clothing. On her feet, Aegon was more than a head taller than her, though she was short compared to how Sansa had been even at a younger age.

"I have one request."

"What's that?" Aegon asked with ease, appearing to have expected this.

"I get to train. I killed two men, yes, but I haven't sparred or fought properly in months."

"If you possess any skill at all, you'll not have to fight anyone here."

"It's a simple request," Arya argued. "Let me fight with Ser Rolly here."

"Duck?" Aegon asked, and Arya quirked her head in question before understanding. "Call him Duck."

Looking at the knight, Arya saw the man shaking with a small bought of laughter. How was it she provided so much entertainment to these people? There was little she wanted more in that moment than to set both of them on their asses in a friendly spar and wipe their stupid smirks off of their handsome faces. Not that Duck was handsome, though his boy-ish brutishness may attract some, and Aegon might…

_Stop_.

"Shouldn't you be called Ser Rolly?" Arya asked, diverting her wandering mind.

The knight shrugged, but ignored her question. "I'd fight the girl, my Prince."

She wanted to kiss the man on his freckled cheek then, but instead flashed her eyes to Aegon. He frowned for a moment with discomfort, as though she were a small child begging for a sweet.

"Blunt edges only," Aegon conceded. Arya was sure that he was one of, if not the only man who had not questioned her desire to fight. Though it was probable he was only looking for proof of her supposed skill. "And in private of course. At sunrise each day."

"Do you have other Kingsguard to watch you?"

Aegon and Duck exchanged a look and the prince deflated slightly, shoulders dropping. "I'll watch you both. Do we have an agreement, Arya Stark?"

In a very un-princely moment, Aegon held out a gloved hand, and Arya stared for a breath before grasping and shaking it.

"You shouldn't do that, you know," she couldn't help but to voice her opinion.

"Yes, well, I won't with others."

The prince gave a small shrug of his shoulders and turned to the door. Duck gave the timber frame a hefty knock to alert the guards outside.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've made it clear you don't intend to treat me as a prince, and I'm making it clear I don't intend to treat you as a highborn lady. Or have I read this entirely wrong?"

"No," Arya said, unable to help the frown of confusion crossing her face.

The door opened, and Aegon dipped his head in acknowledgement as another slight smile played on his lips. "Glad we could come to an understanding. Duck and I will be here before sunrise."

 

***

She had taken to eating the food they brought as well as the drink, though she noticed the ale was watered down and the portions of porridge, bread and salted meat that she received were smaller than they had been in the first days when she'd refused them.

Rationing for a siege.

Duck and Aegon came as the light outside of her window waned with a purple tinge, and she shoveled the last spoonful of porridge and honey into her mouth so quickly a clump fell into her lap.

The Kingsguard handed a stack of clothing to Arya before the two stepped from the room. If newly made leather breeches, a fitted soft-spun tunic and pliable leather doublet didn't speak to her to revoked prisoner status, Arya wasn't sure what would. It was a gift, a considerate one, and carefully chosen.

_They're trying to make me like them_ , she reminded herself, donning the clothes no matter, wondering if and when she'd be given her jacket and other belongings.

Her arm ached still, though less than it had the previous days, and she guessed that Haldon would warn her against straining it as she was about to do. It helped that the guards did not feel compelled to lock her wrists together when she left, though one walked next to Aegon as he led the way from the chambers, and the other fell into step behind her alongside Duck.

Arya memorized the journey from her holding once more. After ascending a single flight of stairs they veered from the path they’d taken the previous evening and down a new corridor and suddenly were descending steps to the atrium she had glimpsed before. Three floors up in whichever building she was held, and she’d been given the very simple directions to the exit.

The entranceway was small with worn stone floors that didn’t meet with the bottom of the singular door that led out into a palisaded yard. It might’ve once been grassed, though now it was little more than a muddy pit, with the very center hosting a murky pool of water. There was a distinct stinging dampness to the air, as though the salt of the sea had solidified in the chilled morning air and was now attacking her cheeks. Casks lined the of the palisade, along with a number of crates stacked three of four high. Tracks had sluiced paths through the muck to the supplies, which were clearly in holding before being brought into the building she’d be held in.

Glancing back at where she’d exited, Arya saw that she had been held at the very top, three sets of windows above the ground. Comparably, the building was quaint, not nearly a third of the height of the massive and overwhelming drum tower standing in the center of the keep.

“You sleep up there?” She nodded to the windows lining the highest levels.

“An assassin girl is asking where I sleep?” Aegon laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can assure you I’ve set a strict silence policy around my chambers to keep you from finding them.”

“Hasn’t that made anyone suspicious?”

“It _is_ a bit strange,” Duck supplied as he strode into the yard and the other two guards retreated back to sentry at the door. Arya wondered if they’d been two of those who had captured her, and if so it was possible they knew as much about her as their prince did. “Someone asked if we thought the chambers were cursed.”

Duck went to one of the stacks of barrels and from behind it withdrew two blades, not longswords, but not at all the Braavosi type Arya had grown used to. But she’d worked with others like this, and spears, and she’d practiced her archery with lack-luster bows. It would do, though she would appear less skillful. Perhaps that would be better.

“Saw your blades,” Duck said as he passed her one training sword, “can’t say we have training daggers or sticks.”

The sword was heavy and unbalanced in Arya’s hand, the humidity of the morning made the grip wet and she curled and uncurled her hand around it a number of times before finding a hold. Aegon stood the opposite side of the large puddle and Arya made a lunge at Duck to initiate the fight, expecting they didn’t have long before the prince’s attention was required elsewhere.

Despite his layers of armour, Duck was agile on his feet and moved his sword with great ease, predicting each of Arya’s hits, and aiming his own with precision and a sort of frankness Arya had not expected. He did not hold back, placing a blunted crack on her left shoulder within half a minute.

Arya was able to predict many of his movements after a round, but deflecting his volleys was difficult considering his strength, and after a few Arya knew to block for only a second before easing her press and passing forwards or backwards out of his reach. It was in this that she was able to place her first blow. The guard of her blade locked with his for a moment, and as she withdrew and switched her footing, she was able to duck beneath a retaliatory swing and catch his hip with a sidestep to his left and her right, before blocking his blade once more.

After another bout, Duck focused on her footing more so than her shoulders or her eyes, realizing she could dance about with considerable ease, and that her significantly small stature made it simple to lift and plant her feet faster than a grown man. He used his body rather than the blade, and stopped her in a spin with a drop of his plated shoulder.

The blow was heavier than she braced for, and it sent her falling backwards with a noticeable splatter into the mud, the square of her back landing first as she avoided reaching with her injured arm.

“Sorry,” Duck cringed as he stepped towards her. The breath had been knocked from her lungs, but with a moment of focus on the muscles in her chest, Arya caught it and spat a curse at the knight. “Know I shouldn’t do that when we’re just sparring, but I suppose it’s what you can expect out there from brutes like me.”

He offered a hand and Arya took it, the mud releasing her with a squelch. She could feel her half-short hair clumping with the stuff, and rivulets of water running down her spine. Duck glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to glow more yellow than orange or purple and gave a nod to Aegon who stepped away from his bank of safety. The morning light revealed a yellow tinge to his silvery hair as well as a line of pale stubble along his chin. And his eyes, a deep amethyst, like the very outer edges of the stone. There was spot of mud across his plain black clothing, though it was nothing compared to the mess caking Duck and herself.

“Better than I expected, I’ll admit,” Aegon acknowledged with a raise of his brows. “You’ll be happy winter is coming, you’ll get a few extra moments each morning before its proper daylight. Now, I’ve given what you asked, it’s only fair you uphold your end of the bargain.”

Back in her chambers Arya found her bag had been returned, though not her weapons and jacket. A small basin with a cloth had been set near the hearth and she rinsed her hands before opening the bag while Aegon and Duck waited outside.

Inside two faces. One was that of a young, plain woman that Arya had not yet worn, and did not yet know well. The other was Mercy, pretty with almond shaped eyes and a small nose, full lips. The skin made Arya feel a touch ill, and a cold crept over her as she recalled all that she’d left behind in Braavos.

“I need a knife,” she called out to the door as she shoved the face back into the bag and felt the small bottle of potion rattle within. There wasn’t much, enough for a few changes, and unless she could find someone who knew how to make it, she had to ration it.

The door opened a moment later, Duck frowning at her.

“I’m not giving you a knife.”

“Then I can’t do this,” Arya argued.

Duck glanced back at Aegon who was leaning against the far wall in a half sitting position. He waved a hand and Duck leaned down to his boot and extracted what looked to be a small paring knife.

“Swear you’ll not use it against us?”

“Kick it to me and I’ll kick it back.”

The knife skittered across the floor in a flash of silver. Part of the secret would be revealed, but only part and they wouldn’t understand it fully. Arya took the knife, and a deep breath as she had in the yard and pressed the knife into her hairline, dragging it along until she felt the heat of blood beading. Without a word she dropped it to the floor, kicked it with her toe back to Duck.

“Now close the door.”

Once it shut she found the potion as the blood began diverting along her brow. The murky liquid was bitter and sour, her lips tingled and her tongue itched even with the small dose. And then she held Mercy’s face in one hand, and smeared the blood over her face, down her nose and cheeks, and across her chin with the other hand.

Mercy’s memories, or whoever Mercy had been, were pleasant, something Arya had forgotten. Memories of a calm blue sea and a blossoming meadow with horses, and small child. Mercy had been a sister, or a mother, Arya was unsure, but the child had appeared in a dream once, though its face was indistinguishable. There were new memories now, of Mercy herself, of Arya as Mercy the mummer. Mercy hauling a body down a flight of stairs.

“Ready,” she called in a voice very much her own, but that she knew would sound very different to those outside.

There was an audible gasp as the door opened, though it came from Aegon rather than Duck who she had expected. The prince pushed from the wall and strode into the room, and once in the room took the liberty to circle Arya before speaking.

“You’re taller. And your hair’s not as dark.”

“I can’t tell.”

“Truly?” He asked, not at all taking care to hide his fascination. “If you have a looking glass?”

“I can see it, but I don’t feel it. I’m still me.”

Aegon stepped in front of her, his eyes casting up and down her body, and then falling her bloodied hands.

“Does it hurt?”

“I don’t recall agreeing to an interrogation,” Arya warned, stepping to the basin to rub the blood from her hands. “I’ve shown you, that was the arrangement.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I'm only curious… Tell me one thing. Anything, since you don’t want me to ask. Anything about _this_.”

Arya paused for a moment, and then scrubbed at the heel of her left hand though there was little blood remaining.

_What can I say?_

She thought of a body in a canal.

“I killed Raff the Sweetling in this face. He was one of the Mountain’s men…” she said want to say his full name, Gregor Clegane, but not in front of the boy whose mother and sister had been butchered by the man. Even if Aegon hadn’t seen it, she could understand the pain of hearing of it, just as she felt when she thought of Robb and her mother. Even if he wasn’t _the_ Aegon, he believed he was and they were as much his mother and sister as they were to babe who had died with them.

“He was in Braavos with others from King’s Landing, and I recognized him, he’d killed one of my friends near Harrenhal. I convinced him to come with me and then I cut him so that he knew what was happening, and dragged his body to a canal once he’d bled out.”

The air in the room was still, Aegon held her gaze – Mercy’s gaze – for a moment, his face flat. “I suppose you’ve already started making fewer enemies for us all.”

Arya nodded, her face solemn, and she felt the strange wave of melancholy that laced throughout the room, emanating from the prince.

A blink of her now almond eyes and Aegon was standing straight up, and had encouraged a brightness in his eyes again before speaking.

“I’ll be in the Round Hall soon, the feasting hall in the tower, just below the chambers – not mine – at the top. When I’ve returned later, I expect you to relay some sort of conversation you heard me having.”

Arya gave a grin. The abundance of information she was gaining made her a bit giddy.

“Didn’t expect to be doing this all in a day,” she said.

“We prefer to cover as much ground in as short a time as possible here. Keep the face on. Don’t forget, I need a name before the siege.”

***

She didn't know the kitchen cat; she wasn't even sure how to find a particular cat, or how this _seeing_ worked.

It may have taken an hour of laying on her back entirely still, focusing on something, on seeing, when she found a set of eyes. They were somewhere without much light, and the floor was damp, and it was not where she needed to be.

So she tried again, she focused on the women she had seen in the kitchens, the twirling stairwells they ascended and descended in corners of the keep. The swishing of their skirts, the fraying hems, the tatty leather shoes on smoothed, worn flagstones. Her eyes caught them at last and she followed, though Arya was never quite sure if she was in control or was merely an observer.

Up, up, up and some of the ladies were grumbling with exhaustion but the cat darted ahead, unimpeded.

At an unassuming door with a singular guard, a call went out. The door opened and the ladies and two other servants bustled in, and from the way the humans were lounging at the table just within the doorway it was clear they had gorged on breakfast already.

The hall was massive, as a feasting hall should be, lined with tapestries and massive crowns of antlers above rows of tables that stretched all the way around the curved walls to the opposite end where grand double doors marked the main entrance. Thick, heavy curtains that smelled of dust surrounded the high walls in sets of two, and some were pulled back with thick golden rope to allow a dull grey light to wash over the room through dirty windows.

The cat darted behind the closest set as the plates and platters and goblets were gathered and taken away. If the hall were ever full, she could easily slink from curtain to curtain and table to table and hear all that had to be heard.

_Quiet as a shadow_.

Someone hissed for the ‘damn cat’, and then sighed in frustration before the door, which was now behind her, closed.

There were eleven people seated around the high table which was on a dais, a few steps above the rest of the room. Five were seated on one side, six on the other. Everyone was speaking in low voices, perhaps to not be overheard, perhaps exhausted from their feasting.

Aegon had added a black cloak with red lining to his morning outfit, and his poorly cut hair had been swept around to look more presentable. To his right was Connington, frowning while he spoke with a man to his right who was large and round with grey hair. Arya had heard names, and his armour and the clothing beneath it was rich looking, a bright golden yellow that nearly matched the Baratheon colours, but belonged to the Golden Company. _Harry Strickland_ , a name repeated throughout conversations shared by those she’d met thus far. At the end closest to her, Haldon was speaking with a young dark haired man dressed in plain clothes.

There were three women across from Aegon, and Arya immediately assumed the one directly opposite him was Arianne Martell. All three had deep olive skin that glowed even in the dull light, and Arianne had thick black hair cascading in curls over her shoulders and down her back. She was objectively beautiful, and the way she held herself in her chair, relaxed, lounging though not lethargic suggested that she was very much aware of her allure. She wore some sort of striking green gown that consisted of flows and loops of loose material wrapped in a number of intricate ways.

“If you want to go riding, I’ll send men with you. We expect Tyrell scouts are out and possibly Lannister ones as well,” Aegon was saying to the group.

“We’ve three knights already, and myself.” The woman to Arianne’s left spoke. She was tall and lean, and brushed a relaxed long braid over her right shoulder. It fell into layers of deep rust coloured linen and Arya could see from the ground that she wore leggings rather than a gown. A fighter then. There was something in the shape of her eyes similar to Arianne, and Arya suspected they were related.

The final woman, who did not speak, was dressed similar to Arianne though in silvery grey robes, and her hair held half back with golden pins. Her eyes were a lighter brown, and keen as they followed the conversation.

“Worst they’ll do is take us into their camp,” Arianne argued, sipping from a goblet, her eyes offering a challenge over its rim. “Martells are not officially enemies of the Crown, though mistreatment by the Tyrells would make it so.”

Aegon didn’t respond, and glanced to Connington who had finished his conversation with Strickland.

“While you are our guests –” Connington began, but Arianne held up a hand that flashed with a number of delicate golden rings.

“I am very much aware that the moment we landed, we became your hostages,” Arianne narrowed her dark eyes. “But I have absolutely no reason to leave you, dear cousin. I don’t mean to run away, only to get off of this dull cliff for a few hours. Poor Daemon doesn’t know what to with himself if he’s not got a sword in hand. I’ve been locked in a tower for a number of weeks before, but never one so salty I feel like a fish in brine. If we don’t perish of boredom, we might of staleness. You can understand that we’ll find a way out whether you permit it or not.”

The men all wore Dornish armour that shone with a burnished bronze finish, and the one with a sigil different from the others shifted in his seat. He had the lightest hair of the entourage, was imposing with wide shoulders, and his red tunic boasted a sigil with an open golden hand on red and black. The other men, seated on either end of the table both wore the Martell sun and spear across their chests, though compared to the other knight appeared less capable of breaking out of Storm’s End with force alone.

“I’ll go with you,” Aegon said, everyone stiffened, even in their satiated stupors. Connington began protesting first, and then Haldon and Harry Strickland while Arianne’s red lips turned upwards with a grin. “But we go south from here, and I bring my offered men.”

_Idiot_ , Arya thought.

It was clear Arianne did not intend to escape her new-found cousin’s clutches, and that she indeed only wished for fresh air and changed scenery. If she had wanted to flee, she would not have agreed, and Arya expected Aegon’s offer meant something else to her. The Dornish came all this way to see a boy who may not have been their kin, and they’d found him worthy instead of wanting. Though, Arianne wanted him. If Aegon were going to be king, of course Arianne Martell would wish to marry him. His proposal to ride with her made it quite clear than he valued her, and it was precisely what the princess had hoped for.

Arianne beamed at the boy-prince. “Later this afternoon, then? I’m sure you are quite busy, preparing for the siege, building defenses, all of that. I appreciate you taking time for us.”

The beat of sarcasm was unmistakable, and Arya wanted to laugh as Connington’s frown somehow grew deeper. Instead of an inward laugh to her human self, the cat meowed, and loudly. The princess was the first to hear, and shot her head in the cat’s direction.

“Oh! We have a friend. What brought you all the way up here?” Arianne stood and started towards the curtains with a playful expression.

Arya froze, though she was already frozen, lacking control. She blinked. When her eyes opened she was staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling of her increasingly familiar chambers. Panting, she rose from her bed, splashed her face with the water in her basin before remembering that it had be dirtied with blood and mud.

_He’s a fool_ , Arya shook her head, droplets spraying the floor.

She knew liars and she knew honest men, and when she concentrated she could come to comprehend the intentions behind most lies or truths. It was impossible not to notice Arianne’s beauty, and it should have been obvious to the prince and his advisors that she was working Aegon like fresh clay. It _was_ possible that she intended to draw him out, kill him, though how that would benefit her in anyway Arya was unsure. It would put the Martells on the Lannister’s side, but Arianne would never be queen that way. No, she merely wanted his time and his attention.

They could die, out on a quick ride, if they were ambushed. If Aegon died, then the Golden Company would leave, maybe, but Arya would remain here, imprisoned, and have to wait until the Tyrells found her and then find a way out. It was an option, but some unidentifiable part of her _needed_ to make Aegon aware of that which he was clearly oblivious. He was becoming a become pawn, rapidly at that, and for some inexplicable reason it made Arya rather anxious.

She hadn’t finished her tasks yet, perhaps that was it. Aegon would come to have proof that Arya could hear through walls, and she decided that if she could give him a name before he went out riding, he’d have to follow up rather than accompanying Dornish. It didn’t matter to Arya if the princess rode out on her own, if she was captured or lost. Though there was a chance the Arianne would take to the kitchen cat…

Arya scampered back to her bed, laid flat on her bad and did her best to settle. She wanted to be everywhere at once, but she thought of the paws on the damp ground, a cellar or a yard. Supplies lining walls and floors. Running. A room with a man, coffers of coin.

_Focus_. _Look. See._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, and yes this is turning into the slowest of burns. I am sorry. But I promise all of the relationship tags will be fulfilled! Also this is going to be a longer story than originally anticipated (assuming people are still reading and enjoying it, of course). 
> 
> A clarification. This will be Arya focused, but will have bits of other POVs (potentially just Jon) on occasion.  
> Here's a preview for next chapter where we finally get some Jonnoboi in our lives. 
> 
> "It was the shrieking that stirred him. He had heard it with ears which turned towards the sound, at the door, the cries coming from without. And then each shriek was a wound in his chest and in his back, tearing, rupturing muscle and snapping bone.  
> The wounds were real and scorching his skin and the shrieks were real and berating the very base of his head. A searing gasp for air was real too, though Jon was distinctly aware it should not have been possible."
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, and let me know what you think :)


	4. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon really doesn't want to be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a split chapter with Jon and Arya originally, but I had too much to set up with Jon! So it's all him.
> 
> This is a true mix of show and book concerning the events around Jon's death and resurrection, so sorry if it seems a bit redundant, though I tried to mix it up by changing a few details. 
> 
> Warning: Events surrounding Shireen's death are somewhat similar to the show, including her demise (burning) as well as Selyse's (implied suicide), though I do not explicitly show either as they happen 'off-screen'. Please avoid this chap if this might be content that bothers you. You may wish to read the 1st and 3rd sections (separated by the ***) which do not include these parts.

 

_Low moon don the yellow road /_ _I remember something /_ _That leaving wasn't easing all that heaving in my vines_

\- Bon Iver, 715-CR∑∑KS

 

 

There was something happening outside, the humans were fighting outside. He couldn't get out, no digging at the ground would help, no shout. No one came to him, no one came with food or water, and running at the closed door did nothing. Sometimes he slept. And when he slept he dreamt.

He was watching a girl, a girl like Arya, but older than he'd last seen Arya and with longer hair. On a horse, a restless horse trotting around the yard outside of the stables at Winterfell, and she was calling for someone to hurry, though it was not in a state of panic. She was excited, she gripped the reins with one hand, guiding her stead from running into those going about their business around her.

He was outside of a tower in a foreign dry land, and there were men fighting. Kingsguard fighting, their snow coloured cloaks whirling about them. Kingsguard fighting Northmen. In a swirl of sand they were gone.

He was at Winterfell, but the girl was gone, everyone was gone. He was standing in the same spot, but the ground was soft with a thick layer of fresh snow and the keep was in ruins, smoldering, but the smoldering wasn't enough to melt the snow.

He was in the sky. Above the sky, maybe. A shadow of something over a city, a massive city with red rooftops. The shadow was flying and then was gone in a flash of silver. No, a curtain of silver, shimmering silver hair twisting in the wind against a bleak grey sky.

He was looking at a babe, a newly born child, purple and pink. Dark blue eyes and black hair clear beneath the coating of strange fluids and smears of blood.  He wasn't holding it, another man was with hands he did not recognize.

He was in the far north, the ground was a mess of stone and rubble, bodies and blood and furs. Wildlings, their worn furs blended into the snow and dirt, the rocks scattered across the frozen land. There were some dead in black, some Thenns in their armour that shone with studded bronze. Children.

And there was an ethereal being, wisps of snow spiraling around it, the body beneath a shade of a frozen lake, deep and dark, though with streaks of lightness at the surface. It seemed to be clad in some sort of armour, an impenetrable ice layer etched with indistinguishable patterns that may have been swirling with the fury of frost around the figure. Its eyes were blue, vivid, the purest form of the colour imaginable and somehow it _saw_. It moved a hand, which shimmered as though the muscles beneath the frozen flesh were rippling with diamonds. The bodies began to move.

He was below ground, with bones scattered across damp soil. White branches, no, roots, snaking around and through another form, pale as the other, though shrouded in darkness.

He was above ground, a shadow of a grand weirwood above him, casting shade across an icy tundra with a mist forming in the distance. More beings, tens of them, less elusive than the one with the bodies, more solid. The eyes were the same though, and set into gaunt milky white skin stretched across human skulls. Each wore the reflective translucent armour, shifting with blue and white light.

They moved forward in tandem, and as they did a mass shifted behind them, like an avalanche collecting in a basin. A cry went out that shook the branches of the weirwood so that ice droplets rained from it, and the hills in the distance shuddered, the ground itself protested at the sound and groaned, the shriek was piercing through every part of the world itself.

_Jon_. A whisper.

Shrieking.

 

It was the shrieking that stirred him. He had heard it with ears that turned towards the sound, at the door, the cries coming from without. And then each shriek was a wound in his chest and in his back, tearing, rupturing muscle and snapping bone.

The wounds were real and scorching his skin and the shrieks were real and berating the very base of his skull. A searing gasp for air was real too, though he was distinctly aware it should not have been possible.

It felt that he had been living in darkness for years, the light was unfamiliar to him, the noises, the feeling of a draught dancing across his skin. His memories were distant, he couldn't grasp a singular one, he knew he had a name, and he had a people, but they escaped him. The darkness had robbed him of any recollection of life, life before this life, faces were shadows. Something was missing, as essential part of his being had taken flight, but he felt it would return, there was space within him for it.

He shifted. He had a body, of course he had a body, it was producing pain, which was great and consuming and distracted him from the colossal loss that he could not name. There was a hard, unyielding surface beneath him.

"Snow?"

_Snow_ , he recalled a squawk from a raven.

_Snow. I am Snow._

Someone has said the name Jon earlier, and it was reforming, a memory.

_I am Jon Snow. I am Jon Snow, the bastard of Ned Stark. The brother of…_ the names were difficult to form, but the blur covering the faces in his mind was receding.

"It’s impossible."

"No. It worked… it… the girl."

The voices were heavy with disbelief, terror. Jon could recognize the emotions, but he couldn't feel them himself. What had happened? What was there to fear?

He had to breathe, he had to remind himself to breathe, but the breathing was like fire jumping through him, scorching up his throat and out of his mouth and he made a gasping noise. A number of voices went up around him.

"My lord!"

"Go find the witch!"

"And do what?"

"Bring her here."

The door shut, the room shuddered for it and his eyes opened as the flames coursed in and out of his chest. His body began shaking, uncontrollably, and each movement ached through his muscles as though they were being pried apart sinew by sinew.

He saw the rafters first, and then the frosted air leaving his parched lips, and then a number of familiar faces peering down.

"You're alive," one cried.

Another flung a blanket over Jon's body.

"He's going to freeze. Hells, he should be frozen."

"It’s the fire."

 ***

Jon listened as best he could, sitting at the Lord Commander's desk, covered in furs though he wasn't cold, and drinking the bit of broth he could stomach. There was a pit of dread that had opened within, it seemed to be forming into a cavern within him. There was no way to describe what he felt, or failed to apart from sheer emptiness.

He hadn't said a word to those gathered when he first woke. On his feet, he had collapsed immediately, Tormund and Val had caught him. Ghost provided the first connection to reality Jon made, his hand in the wolf's thick fur, breathing in the familiar wildness of the wolf grounded him in a way nothing else could.  

He had glanced at the wounds down his chest, he could feel where the skin was pulled open, there was pain, but they had somehow healed just enough to not be gaping at the must have been. Looking too long, touching even at the unmarked flesh near them made Jon’s stomach turn and his vision fog with nausea.

Everyone in his chambers had been familiar, the faces known, but the names had escaped him at first. As he breathed in the comfort of Ghost, those gathered in his chamber began speaking all at once, and the sound was enough to grind at the very base of his skull, the sensations all far too much. Jon had begun retching then, though there didn't seem to be anything to vomit, and the pull at his stomach made each fissure created by the knives of his enemies sting.

_What has happened to me?_

Tormund had hauled him up, someone gave him furs to wrap around his naked upper body.

_Tormund_ , Jon thought. _Yes, I know him. I know these people._

"I don't understand," Jon managed out as they deliberated on where to put him, how to aid him. When Jon spoke, his voice seemed distant and not his own, warbled and weak.

"Neither do we," Val's voice came. He was able to identify it quickly with Tormund and Satin's.

"Tell me," Jon said, his throat hitching and the words coming out as a distinct plea.

At further insistence, Tormund guided Jon to the Lord Commander's solar, where Jon's legs gave out once more, but where he was able to collapse into a chair. Jon didn't want to go into his bed. Looking at it exhausted him beyond comprehension though he didn't want to sleep, he didn't want to know what would happen if he slept. For a moment he thought it might be a wolf dream, but it was so different, so human, and he had seen so much, though on reflection couldn’t recall precisely what it had been.

"You were dead."

Somehow, upon hearing those words Jon was able to make sense of them.

_Dead_.

“How?” He asked, head in his head, elbows resting on the table’s edge. If he were dead, he supposed that meant he was alive now, and the air burning his throat confirmed he was breathing. But it didn’t make sense. Surely when the dead rose beyond the wall they were not capable of thinking or feeling. But he had been drawn from death just as they had.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, forced memories to return. There had been shouting, he had been near a tower… “Wun Wun?

“If a giant had killed you, you’d no’ have a body left, Snow,” Tormund said from in front of him.

"He was guarding the tower, and then it was shaking so a few of us came out,” Val said, her voice softer, less harsh than the other wildling’s had been. It only occurred to Jon then that there were more free folk with him than brothers, and none of the queen’s men. “There was a southerner, of the queen’s men, smashed about and torn apart on the ground. A crow as well.”

Hardin’s Tower, Jon recalled the women staying there. He had been trying to calm the giant, he remembered the smashed in skull, the blood on a surcoat, the sigil had been clear and though was now forgotten. Trying to keep the peace, the fragile peace and then he was struck. Everything was so unclear, his head filled with cobwebs, sticky as he tried to wade through them. Struck from the back? From the front? He had he seen who it had been?

_Who did this?_

“More free folk came out, more crows, and people started fighting, ready to kill each other over your body,” Val continued, and Tormund seemed to laugh.

“All for a bloody crow’s life,” he shook, his head moved in feigned disbelief.

“Leathers came out to calm the giant, my Lord,” Satin spoke next, his voice his and strange compared to Val and Tormund’s. At last, Jon was able to look up, his neck protesting. Val and Tormund stood to his right, looking unharmed but with dried blood on their hands and clothing. A spearwife stood behind them, and two other wildling men who Jon couldn’t name. To the left stood Satin, and with him a ragged looking man, though strong. _Ulmer_ , Jon thought. Next to him was a blond brother of the watch.

Together, their presence made the room feel cramped, suffocating, too hot, Jon felt he must have been sweating though he knew it to be nearly winter.

"It’s too much,” Jon whispered. “Those who know most stay.”

All but Tormund and Val made to leave, though Jon beckoned with an aching hand for Satin to stay. The motion sent a jolt up to his shoulder.  

"I know I can trust you lot, or I hope… How am I back?”

The three shared a look, apprehension clear across them all, and Jon recognized a turn of sadness in Satin's frown. That very emotion was eluding Jon along with all the others he could name and see.

"The Red Woman, my Lord," Satin said.

Tormund's worn face was pulled into a deep frown, Jon thought the man should be loud, he thought he remembered the man being brazen and shouting.

From nowhere, the image of bodies scattered across the rocky, snow strewn tundra flashed in Jon’s head. _Hardhome_ , he remembered. Had it been a dream, a fear of what would happen there? Cotter Pyke had written of dead things around them, Jon suddenly recalled.

"I'm not sending you to Hardhome," he said to Tormund. "I think I meant to, but I cannot. Not now. It’s too late. The mists came…”

It was apparent that he sounded mad, speaking of a place he’d never been, of events he couldn’t possibly understand. But he _knew_ , and the frustration of it made his eyes burn with tears. _I’ve gone mad_. _This isn’t real. This is all a dream._

The room was silent, the fire behind Jon crackled and he felt its heat in a way he had never before, it was more intense than any memories of fire he could evoke.

The part of him that knew he was alive expected protests, there were thousands there, thousands they had meant to save…

The letter, with the pink seal. The memory was enough to knock the wind from him. He had proclaimed his intent to leave, to go south and fight Bolton at Winterfell, to save Arya and someone else. There had been anger in the in eyes of many when he had announced his desire in the Shield Hall, and with that recollection he was suddenly seeing the fury and betrayal in the eyes of Bowen Marsh and then the sadness in Wick's. How could he identify them and not others who had just been in the room?

"There might be survivors," Val said. She had pushed from the wall at his words, arms cross, determination clear across her fine features.

"There might be ships," Jon nodded, pain blooming behind his eyes. He was drained at the thought of anyone ranging out to find said survivors, drained at the thought of keeping his eyes open, his mind working. "There might be survivors. You could go to find them, but we all know what might happen. If there are, they’d go to Eastwatch. We’ll send ravens to forewarn them. I wish I could explain what I saw.”

Tormund had not appeared perturbed at Jon’s words, though his eyes narrowed so that his bush y red brows seemed to nearly meet his cheeks. "I’m trusting you, Snow. We've seen more this past day or so than I could o’ imagined.”

"Thank you," Jon said, and his chest pulsed with something. Gratitude. The first real sentiment he’d had and he was moved suddenly for Val and Tormund for merely listening to him. “How did the fight settle?”

"Leathers stopped Wun Wun from swiping at Crows. He asked who’d killed you. It had been one of the crows he’d killed, the others were in the mess. We don’t know who, or if they’d been killed in the fight,” said Val.

“Which did he kill?”

“Wick,” Satin said. “I saw his head once they started burning the bodies.”

Wick had been devastated, Jon had identified it in the man’s eyes in his memory. Devastated at what Jon had decided, more likely that than taking the life of a Lord Commander who’d thrown his vows to the wind.

“The other was Marsh,” Jon said, confident.

“We’ll get him, my Lord,” Satin nodded. “He should be holed up with the others.”

“The queen’s men came out, didn’t see their own man’s body until after,” Val continued. “Wun Wun stormed off, we’ve not seen him since, though I doubt he’s gone far.  Your crows started calling for justice, while the others railed against you, calling you a traitor. Then they were fighting amongst themselves, some of the free folk joined again and then the Queen's men broke in. They started insisting the queen was in command until your body had been burned and a new Lord Commander was chosen.”

“They called for the crows to lock us up,” Tormund said, shaking his head ahead. “Don’t know what they were thinkin’. Couple o’ crows, the boy here, the others asked to take your body up first, a few free folk stepped in too.”

“I knew we’d all just be at each other’s throats if they tried to take us,” Val shrugged, though Jon felt a bit warmer, human warmth, knowing she’d offered to help. “The witch told the queen to allow it, made us pledge not to harm crows or queen’s men, and made them swear the same for us.”

Satin stepped forward, hands behind his back. "I said was worried they’d start arguing over your body next, my Lord, or that the Red Woman would want it. Without the wildlings' help I’m not sure you’d be here.”

Once more, Jon was gracious, an overwhelming sensation he was unsure if he’d ever felt so strongly in life. _The other life._

“Queen’s men started ordering everyone back to their beds, let a few of each to clean up the bodies and said they’d all be burned. They threatened to kill anyone that came out until they were told to, said they’d burn them alive with the dead in the morning,” said Val.

It was then that a shieldwife entered, and with her, Melisandre. The priestess somehow looked dulled, like the flame within had petered out, smothered by snow or extinguished with a gust of wind, but her gaze was as piercing and incapacitating as Jon remembered.

"I don't believe it," she murmured, sweeping into the room, ignoring the others. She came to stand to Jon left and then her hand, warm and unyielding grabbed Jon's chin and she knelt, her eyes locked on his. "It is _you_. What did you see, Jon Snow?"

He had seen too much to articulate, and he did not feel compelled to trust her, even if she had brought him life. It took more force than he expected to pull his face from her grasp, the tips of her fingers digging in with strength.

"Hardhome," Jon said. "Nothing, and then I saw the dead at Hardhome."

"You saw the Great Other," Melisandre countered, rising to her feet again, eyes only on Jon.

"I don't know," he swallowed, the pressure of her gaze stirring something within him. Anger, it seethed alongside the pain ebbing through him.

Though perhaps she was right. Had he seen the Great Other? He recalled ice. The dead. So many. They were facing an unstoppable enemy. Somehow death by his men seemed less terrible.

"How did you do – why did you do this?"

Melisandre’s formidable exterior cracked, her full lips pouted as they turned down, the very skin on her cheeks slumped some sort of distress. “I had not meant to, but the Lord of Light, he allowed it –”

"She burned the girl," Val snapped, having stepped closer to the desk. Now her light eyes shone with contempt, a fierce glimmer within, and they stayed on the priestess. "They all lost their minds. They found your letter, that their king is dead and they all went mad."

_The girl_. Shireen, a sweet girl, a girl dragged across the kingdoms for what… to be burned? Jon couldn’t believe it. The woman who had spared Mance from the flames had burned an innocent girl, the daughter of the man she served.

But no, she hadn’t served Stannis. She served her other _lord_.

Jon was on his feet, his hands were on the ruby at the priestess' throat, he began pressing and pressing, his thumbs finding the softest parts of her neck. It was satisfying to release the chaos within his body, find a path for it to course through.

"The queen ordered it," Val's voice cut across the room, almost as a plea. But Jon barely heard, the woman's face was growing red, red like her robes and her ruby and her flames. The woman gasping beneath his grip deserved to die, she had hurt so many, and _Princess Shireen_ …

"It brought you back," Melisandre choked, though she did not fight Jon aside from gripping his wrists with her pale hands.

"For what purpose?" Jon cried, his body shuddering again. He removed his hands from her throat, he didn't want to kill her, he realized, not this way. But she had to die, she’d murdered the girl in the worst way he could imagine. Jon wanted to weep, but he didn't seem to be capable of it, rage still emanating from within. But it was swallowed next by the void within him and a sense of overpowering helplessness made his bones so very weary that he felt back into his seat.

He thought of Shireen, her pleasant smile despite the Greyscale marring her face, her gentle eyes. He remembered Val's words, about how the girl should die, how she was a threat to them with her marked face. But he had no energy left to be upset with Val, it has been swallowed up as if by a retreating mist sent by the Others themselves.

"I had not seen Stannis in the flames for some time, I told the Queen as much, which was a mistake." Melisandre explained with her voice crackling less with pain and more with desperation, low and sharp all at once, emphasizing each word. "She heard you speak of his death in the Shield Hall. Without Stannis to lead us into the Long Night, she feared what may come as did I. She begged me to look once more, and when I could not see him she thought… I feared my Lord had abandoned me, but she declared she felt the Lord, that the Lord of Light was within her, guiding her instead."

Jon couldn't meet the gaze of the Red Priestess, or at his friends. Shireen burned, as the man they had believed Mance had burned. Except no one would have given her mercy. She would have shrieked…

He had heard those cries. He had heard them in his dream, he had heard it near the weirwood and then Ghost had heard it, he _had_ been in a wolf dream, if only for a minute.

"I warned the Queen against it, but she would not heed me, she believed herself more powerful. Before morning, she had ordered a pyre built, not for the dead, but for the Princess.” At Shireen’s title, the woman had the decency to pause, though Jon doubted it had been out of any genuine emotion. “The Queen believed that we had been mistaken, that I had interpreted the signs incorrectly, that Stannis was not Azor Ahai. No, she claimed that it was he who was Lightbringer, and his daughter Nissa Nissa, a necessary cost who the Lord of Light himself, Azor Ahai had loved, else he’d not have saved her when she was a babe.”

"And no one tried to stop this?" Jon breathed into his hands shaking his head. He didn’t care about the reasoning of far-fetched prophecies. It felt that he had killed the girl, the sorrow was deafening and heavy within him, he wished he had remained dead. He didn't want life, he didn't want this, not if it meant so many had died, not if it this had been the cost of living.

“We didn’t know until the screams,” Tormund said, his voice quiet, making him seem much smaller than he was. “When we went out, they’d built a ring o’ fire around themselves.”

"Many have died for this cause, Jon Snow. Many will continue to."

"Why didn't you stop her?" Jon cried at the priestess. “You must have stood there, watching…”

"What could I have done? I believed my god had abandoned me, I thought the Queen might have seen something I could not. I had to trust it was his will – and you are here now. _It was his will._ ”

"You could have done anything!" Jon shouted, his fists on the table. “You could have forgotten the flames; you could have considered the girl’s life!”

When the priestess did not respond, her brows merely furrowed, Jon flashed his eyes around the room. Satin was quiet in the corner, his face pale and distraught. Tormund’s jaw was clenched tightly, Val bit at her lower lip. Jon knew they had no respect for the priestess or her men, or the queen. But they couldn't possible have accepted a girl dying in such a way…

The air was heavy between Jon and Melisandre, he was silently begging for her to convince him it was untrue, or something that kept him from feeling that he wished to die all over again to reverse it all.

"I warned her that it would not work, that we needed Stannis’ body. But the Queen would not listen to me, she repeated that the Lord had taken to her instead. I prayed for Stannis to rise, for R’hllor to make it right. Then they set the girl’s fool on the flames when the screams had stopped, he had been singing his mad songs, they had moved from drivel to darker words. It was when he had burned that the flames diminished as if extinguished by water, I knew he had been more than a simple mad man.”

Jon recalled words, about Patchface, the priestess' fear of the fool, and his own unease around the strange drowned-man.

“While the fire went out, I saw flames, great flames that shot higher than a pyre, as if a torrent from the sky. I knew the Lord had not abandoned me, it was a new message, heralded by our sacrifice, though I did not understand what it was until now.”

"And the queen?”

More apprehension across the room, the priestess appeared the least upset, though Jon did not believe her expression would ever be suitable again unless it was one of complete remorse. Val spoke after a beat.

"She threw herself to the ground when it was over, screaming, tearing at her hair like the mad woman she was. Queen’s men made us stay back, told us to finish preparing you for the pyre. When we came out again no one stopped us, the queen was hanging from the railings with four of her men. Others were taking down the stake, though they’d not been in the circle with the rest.”

"And yet you are here," Jon glared up at the Red Woman. "All of this, for your god, all of this prophecy and your king is dead, his queen is dead, his daughter is dead, free folk and brothers of the Watch are dead. Nothing has changed, nothing has been accomplished, you must see that any god who permits this in his name is no god at all."

"And yet _you_ are here, Jon Snow," she said in a low tone, emboldened to step towards him again. "It wasn't Stannis I saw outside of Winterfell. It wasn't Stannis leading us against the long night. It was _you_ , the Lord of Light would not have made this happen if it were not so. You are one of his now, reborn in his light."

Reborn. His. Jon heard the implications, he felt them gnaw at his bones as he recalled what he had seen. The wights, the Others, reborn from the mists of whatever was beyond knowing. And Jon, born again from the flames that had taken a girl. He didn't want to be controlled by a fire god, he didn't want to be controlled by any god, not even the Old Gods would dare to control a man in such a way.

Within the day it was clear that word had spread about his – revival. The others left at his command to deal with those gathering outside, he had told the Red Woman to leave him, and he wanted badly to do _something_ , to make a decision. To know what to do.

Ghost continued to rest at his feet, the wolf’s breathing regular and warm and reassuring, proving that all of this _was_ real though it seemed a worse night terror than any Jon had experienced.

Through his attempts to reconcile what had happened at Castle Black, what had happened for him to be here now, there was an unwavering desire to leave. To take Ghost, and Longclaw and go south to something. He wanted to take Winterfell from the Bolton shit, but with Stannis’ men defeated it seemed unlikely he would have a force to do it. He could draw Ramsay out, into a singular fight, which Jon knew he would win, but it seemed unlikely to work.

His blood burned for it, for the death of Bolton, for the reclaiming of his home, to see Arya again most of all. It was enough to make him weep, to genuinely weep, and he held his head in hand, salty tears running between his fingers.

The Free Folk might go with him if he promised something. But what could he promise? He was not Lord Commander now, at least he had not assumed he would be after forsaking his duty so publically, after _dying_ for the watch. He needed more than the free folk, Stannis’ patchwork army had torn through them easily enough, he expected the Bolton’s army could do the same having routed Stannis. But he was a bastard of Winterfell, he had no claim or name, he couldn’t possibly rally anyone to his side.

Helplessness drove him to remain in solitude until Satin came to announce that they’d found Bowen Marsh, dead. It seemed those who had known of his plot, who knew that Jon had risen had taken justice into their own hands. It upset Jon more than it should have. Marsh was his to execute, he hadn’t realized how sorely he wished to take the man’s head until it was clear he could not.

Justice. If he couldn’t have justice here, he would go south. He would seek blood for his family, even if no one wished to help. It may mean death, but he had died, and coming back had been worse than anything any life he’d had. There was no happiness, the only light seemed to come from the few who had been there when he woke, who were so willing to help him even in death.

Seeing others before he departed was entirely unwanted. No part of him wished to see the pity, the fear, the anger and betrayal, the shock that he knew brothers and free folk alike would wear. Those who grew anxious for proof, he called to his solar one by one.

First, he called Clydas, who tended to the ravens.

“I want you to send word to the realm that the Lord Commander has died,” Jon said, seeing the small man’s eyes go wide helped to solidify his intentions. “If anyone beyond Castle Black believes I am alive; I want it to be through rumors alone. I want a new election to take place, I want you all to select a new Lord Commander without me.”

Val had told him he must see Castle Black was in fair hands before leaving, making him promised it would not be left in chaos. If any free folk were to arrive, she wanted to ensure someone was at the helm who would allow them safe passage, and to ensure the ‘Crows’ who remained would not slaughter those had passed under the Wall already.

Clydas scampered off to fulfil his duties, evidently afraid of speaking out to a dead man.

The parade of others seemed endless. Garse the guard who had seemed to fervently regret not aiding his Lord Commander, though who would not abandon the Wall for Jon’s cause. Ulmer, who had helped bring Jon’s body in from the yard, a former Kingswood brother. A man Jon hoped would be nominated for the vacant position. Hobb the cook who had been previously nominated, a sound man with a clear mind. Ty and Dannel who had found Alys Karstark.

Jon knew he spoke to men whom he trusted, and who trusted in him. It became clear that others had been part of the attack, plunging their knives into him, but no one could say who it had been, though those who came promised to be vigilant and do their best to find the culprits. Those responsible would likely not come forward, too fearful of a man risen by fire.

Garrett Greenspear, Spare Boot the one-legged, Emrick and Arron the twins from Fair Isle, Jeren and Albett, all men who had given Jon no reason to mistrust them came as well. Val and Tormund spoke to the free folk, Tormund vowed to send word to those who had moved elsewhere to places such as Oakenshield and Long Barrow since their arrival. Those who could fight would follow Jon south, Tormund suggested.

The queen’s men who had witnessed the burning of Shireen were in awe of Jon, and while their gaping at him filled the room with unease he tried to speak to them as though nothing had change apart from the end of the Baratheon line. He did not intend to allow the Red Woman to follow, but didn’t take care to tell the men, who must have assumed she would be _his_ Priestess as she had been Stannis’. In turn, six that had objected to the girl’s death pledged to follow him, perhaps because they believed in his cause, or Stannis’ or perhaps because they believed him valued by their Lord of Light.

It didn’t matter to Jon why, and he felt though the girl’s life may have paid for his, these men who had seen it were as distraught with the prospect as he. They had witnessed first-hand the terror their fire worship had brought, and Jon made it very clear he would not allow it again.

The Red Woman came last, a day or so after he had woken, and it was clear from her easy smile upon her arrival that she expected a sort of thanks. Jon offered her none.

“I don’t want you to follow. I do not want to see you again; I cannot allow what you did to the Princess go unpunished. I would execute you, but I owe you my life.”

“It is not me that you owe, but the –”

“I’m allowing you to live, witch,” Jon found himself seething, and having the strength to rise, met her where she stood near the entrance of the solar. “Go anywhere you wish, take a horse, take supplies. But if I see you again, you will not be grateful that you brought me back.”

He couldn’t deny her power, but he could deny its presence within his camp, he could deny it from spreading and creating further fanatics who believed it best to burn people alive. It had increasingly reminded him of stories he’d heard of the Mad King, of his uncle Brandon and grandfather Rickard and the vague memories of such stories turned his stomach. There was an element of fear, an aura about her that commanded attention, an inhuman glow. Jon had never wanted to be further from anything in his life, even the foreboding mists of the undead seemed more natural.

“You will need me,” Melissandre said in an even tone, unfazed, clasping her hands together before her.

“I need nothing from you,” Jon said, willing it to be true. “You cannot help me. Whatever your flames have shown you –”

“You will find aid where you least expect, Jon Snow,” she promised with a light smile. “And you must remember which war it is you are truly meant to fight.”

She turned and vanished through the door into a dark corridor, apparently having accepted her fate.

***

It may have been four or five days before Jon truly left the few rooms he had moved between, he could hardly distinguish day and night for the snow and approaching winter, and an innate inability to sleep for more than what felt like a blink. Satin had informed him that the watch was preparing to elect a new leader, and that many brothers had believed those who had seen and spoken to him. It was all Jon could ask for, and all he cared to know.

What brought him from his chambers were not brothers or free folk, but a group of fifty or more riders approaching Castle Black. The two at the front could not have been more different. One mount, black as night and perhaps near eighteen hands tall held a massive man wrapped it so many furs he appeared as a bear on horseback. The other was a girl in a tattered grey cloak and worn furs about her shoulders, a hood over her head. And the horse, the horse was thin enough to see its ribs, and it hardly seemed able to carry her as small as she was.

_A grey girl on a dying horse_ , Melisandre had said. The priestess was gone and yet another of her visions had come to fruition. Jon had once thought her words had referred to Alys Karstark, but he could not deny that it was the girl approaching the fortress.

_Arya_.

It was still possible to ignore the cold and his protesting body, and Jon forgot himself, racing to meet the contingent.

The large men held a hand to slow the group as Jon approached, others following after Jon. He slowed to a walk, placed a gloved hand on Longclaw, and felt Ghost come to trot alongside him.

“You must be the bastard Snow,” the large man called, acknowledging Jon and then nodding at Ghost. Every part of him was round, and his hair was white as the snow on the ground, though his face was red with the effort of riding. “Lord Wyman Manderly.”

The Manderlys had been with the Boltons, but the banners held behind Lord Manderly were all his own, the merman with the black trident, though the turquoise of the banners had faded to a dull blue-green. Some were splashed black with blood, and many were torn in various ways.

“What business do you have here?” Jon asked, refusing to look at the girl. It had to be Arya, but she had not said anything. Had Bolton harmed her so she had forgotten how to be herself? The Arya he recalled would have jumped from her mount and sprinted to meet him as he had to her.

“This is the Lady Jeyne Poole, well Bolton…” another man rode up on a grey courser, helmed and armoured, his surcoat familiar. A tricolor triple spiral, and the face was familiar, one Jon had seen before. There were many people still could not recognize, something within his head had disjointed and many lesser things had been forgotten. “Lord Massey, Lord Commander. We have met before.”

Jeyne Poole. _Jeyne Poole_.

Sansa’s friend, the steward’s daughter. She had gone south with Sansa, and Arya and his father.

“You didn’t receive the raven?” The lord cocked his head to the right with an odd smile. The man had irritated Jon in the past, that much was becoming clear.

“No raven,” Jon choked. It wasn’t Arya. Arya was still missing, still… she couldn’t be dead.

Others approached behind Jon, a few brothers and some free folk.

“It is true?” A queen’s man asked from over Jon’s shoulder. Follard, the man had told Jon his name when he pledged himself. “The King?”

Massey’s eyes flitted to his fellow soldier, he gave a small frown, and then looked to Jon’s right where Val stood.

“King Stannis sent ravens before the battle. The Arya Stark Ramsay Bolton married was this girl here, recently escaped from Winterfell,” Lord Massey announced.

“We need food, we need water, and we need rest, Lord Commander,” Lord Manderly said. Jeyne Poole hadn’t moved, hadn’t shifted her head or hood and Jon couldn’t look to confirm that it was indeed the girl he had known from a distance in his childhood. A part of Winterfell he had never thought to see again. It was something at least, more than he had before.

It occurred to him that the Manderlys could be here to kill Jon if he invited them within, though he doubted that would be satisfying in any way for Ramsay Bolton, and he doubted they’d have joined with Stannis’ men, or have escorted Jeyne Poole so far north.

“I’m not Lord Commander,” Jon said without thinking, but shook his head. These could be the men he had hoped for. Only fifty, but the Manderlys could be the ally he had been wishing for these past days. They had other men, and ships and influence all of which may aid in taking back Winterfell. And if Jon had Winterfell, perhaps Arya would seek him there. “We’ve not got much room, but we’ll put you where we can. Those strongest should make camp between buildings. If you will, Lord Manderly. I’d like to host you in the Shield Hall at the closest opportunity, there is much to discuss.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it down here!
> 
> So Jon's 'visions' at the beginning were a bit of inception, if you will. There's a moment in the books where he and Bran sort of share a wolf-dream via Ghost, so something similar is happening here. Also he forgets them, as well as a few minor things à la Beric losing a bit of himself each time he's revived. 
> 
> I won't necessarily go into detail on Jon's plans, but we will catch up with him as they play out after we return to Arya for a few chapters. 
> 
> Thanks for continuing to read, any and all comments are very much appreciated :) 
> 
> Preview for next update (which is half-written!):
> 
> “Have you just complimented me?” Arya asked the man who only scowled in return.  
> She was not Arya here. She wore Mercy’s face and her name was Raya, no surname, the bastard of a bastard. Looking back at the field Raya could scarcely see the movements of the Golden Company beyond the curtain-wall even when standing between its crenellations.


	5. Arya IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya notices Aegon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, and somewhat for a chapter full of dialogue. I decided to cut a longer chapter in half so that it didn't drag out too long. You can expect some action next chapter...
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_Always a riddle in the world she says / Always a riddle inside my head / Always a thing to wonder the way we come to be_

_-_ Ben Howard,  _In Dreams_

 

 

Despite Arya’s best laid plans, she scarcely saw the prince over the next days.

Following his meal with the Dornish contingent, Aegon had come for her words to prove that she could hear through walls, but she had given him a name instead.

_Brendel Byrne_.

The prince had frozen, though only for a moment before he asked for her words once more. Perhaps he had not expected her to find the culprit sellsword from within the confines of her chambers, perhaps he did not care, but he acted as though she’d not spoken.

“You’re taking a leisurely ride with the Dornish this afternoon,” Arya had said to Aegon then. He stood in the hall across from her room while she remained on the opposite side of the threshold, hands clasped behind her back. After a beat, she continued. “She’s trying to draw you in, you know. Trap you.”

He’d squinted at her, and turned to leave, her ever-present guards moving to close the door before Aegon spoke back over the burnished dragon fastenings on his cloaked shoulder. “I imagine it’s not occurred to you that I’m working to do the same.”

Some time passed in solitude with Arya attempting to determine if the prince was in the right to seek such an alliance with Arianne. She had to remind herself that it didn’t matter, these were not her people, nor her concern. Anyone could sit on the throne so long it was not someone who had brought the Starks low.

Lemore had been brought to her in the evening, promising Arya new quarters, and they had travelled to the lower chambers of the building, where a door that could not be barred from the outside was opened to reveal a more hospitable room.

There was a proper bed, though small, with a wooden frame and stuffed mattress and a pillow with a fine embroidered cover. The walls were the same bleak, salt-stained stone and the floor creaking wooden planks, though she’d been afforded a few patchy rugs to keep the cold rising from beneath the floorboards. There was a suitable hearth, with a blazing fire, suggesting that someone had prepared the room with care. Two dirty windows were set adjacent to one another in the left corner of the room, both barred with steel that rusted where it had been embedded into the wall with aging spikes.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to request a basin for a bath,” Lemore said, placing herself on the only chair within the room, leaving Arya to seat herself on the bed.

It was on closer inspection of the blankets that Arya noted her jacket, a sheen of dark brown leather with a few scratches and worn cuffs. The button at the very top of the collar was missing where it had been before, but it was otherwise the same. She couldn’t help but note that Needle had not been returned to her.

“They want you to come back from the Tyrell camp,” the septa explained when Arya had picked up the jacket to see if her beloved weapon was hidden beneath.

Arya said nothing. Had Aegon ordered this move because she had given him Byrne’s name? He would not have had time to confirm the accusation before leaving on his ride, and he’d made no fuss as she expected once she had told him. She was still very much Aegon’s prisoner, albeit in a strange way, the same that Arianne and her friends were. Until she was given Needle, until they cared to properly explain any of their intentions with her, she did not have any power.

All she could do was to pass time, awaiting the prince’s return, assuming he would come to speak to her once more. Arya laid on the bed, her back releasing with pain as it fell into the cushioning that gave way unlike the bedroll she’d had.

It seemed a condition of her new ‘freedom’ that the septa would be her constant companion, as the woman had made no move to leave.

 “I’m meant to ask if you become a cat, or if you see through its eyes only. Haldon says maesters who believe skinchangers might have existed say they morphed into the animal itself, the body transforming from one to the other. I told him if that were the case you’d have run off without notice long ago.”

_Meant to ask_. They’d sent Lemore to Arya for this.

Arya shut her eyes, imagining that she was far, far away, that none of this was happening, that she was still on the ship from Braavos to Maidenpool.

“I suppose Aegon has forbidden cats in the tower now,” Arya said, confirming Lemore’s words. “Did Aegon know it was Byrne stealing?”

Lemore gave a small tut of a laugh.

“Not Byrne.”

“Byrne’s squires on his orders,” Arya corrected, sensing the direction of the conversation. She’d been played just when she had believed herself to be in reach of control. “In the cellars. Easier for them to go in the day for the rations than at night when someone would expect it.”

“Yes,” Lemore said. “Lord Connington has suspected it for some time, you’ve confirmed it, as well as your _tricks_. It was Haldon who expected it might be the cats, the prince confessed he was quite amused at the creature revealing itself to Princess Arianne. She was quite drawn to it, but he’s asked the kitchen to keep the cats away from private quarters.”

A small groan escaped Arya’s lips, frustration bubbling up before she could contain it.

“It’s rather vexing to have such skills and to be stifled, I am sure,” the septa reflected after a stretch of silence. “You are punished with the need to be patient now, it is a valuable lesson. You’ll have your time, I am sure.”

A meal of bread and salted meat with boiled vegetables was brought for Arya, Lemore stepped away briefly before returning. Arya wanted desperately to ask after the prince, her freedom, her _complete_ freedom depended on his good will, though she did want to make herself appear so frantic that she cared about Aegon’s whereabouts.

“How’d you come to be in the service of the prince?” Arya asked once she’d finished eating, laying back on her bed once more. Lemore returned to the chair at the hearth, doing what, Arya was unsure. It was clear the woman was meant to be her watcher, discourage her from any unwanted attempts at escape.

“Has the prince told you how he came to be here?” The septa asked.

Arya was tempted to lie and confirm that the prince had indeed revealed his shrouded past, though she expected Lemore would question her on the tale’s details and route her out.

“No.”

“There will be plenty of time for sharing tales in the future,” Lemore said with certainty, though Arya scrunched her face. The future? She had no intentions on remaining longer than necessary, and unless Aegon and his forces descended on the Red Keep when she did, she doubted they would openly cross paths again. “Best sleep if you can. Duck will be here before sunrise for your sparring.”

Upon glancing at the fire and the kindly watcher, Arya saw that the woman had extracted a worn leather book from within her milk-white robes. It was the size of her palm and she read it with a casual poise, suggesting it was neither a book of reverence nor overtly engaging. Arya was soothed somewhat by the unconventional woman’s presence, and her own body began relaxing, tense from her many mental and physical efforts. Before allowing herself to sleep, she pulled her jacket on, afraid that it might again disappear.

Lemore was not there when Duck came in the morning, though the guards remained and Arya was brought to the same yard as the previous day. Even the weather was much the same, a tranquil yet stagnant greyness with an even temperature. Duck had warned her not to ask questions, that he would not answer them and would not spar with her if she pressed.

So Arya remained silent, her morning beginning much the same as it had the previous day, though without Aegon. Being in Storm’s End with this strange collection of people, though now without the prince seemed wrong somehow. She realized that without Aegon there was no point to her presence, the others had not cut a deal with her for her freedom, she had been meant to prove herself to him alone.

Food and a basin for bathing were brought to her chambers by midday, Lemore returned with a few chirps of pleasantries as she continued her passive watch. Arya feared the next day and those after would continue in the same perpetual cycle of uselessness unless Mace Tyrell appeared at the impenetrable walls of Storm’s End.

Arya wondered if Connington had convinced Aegon to abandon his plans with her. Surely, the prince’s forces could quash the Tyrell threat in a swift sweep, no need to dismantle them from within. Without such use to the prince, what else could she offer to buy her passage from the keep?

It occurred to her, not for the first time, that with rumours of alternative Arya Starks in Westeros, she was beyond value to someone who would have to prove their legitimacy. If the princess of Dorne would not be enough, perhaps a daughter of the north, another people ruined and scattered by war, would rally support to Aegon’s side.

***

On the second evening, Lemore left to bring Arya her meal, though Arya’s guards re-entered the room in the septa’s place. They did not bring a meal, but instead hope that her short period of monotony would cease.

“We’re to escort you to the map room,” one, slightly taller than the other, said in a droning voice. “No time for questions.”

Each guard looked rather similar, dark trimmed beard with tanned skin. Their helms covered above their brows and half of either side of their face, and the shadow cast by the metal made it difficult to define their features further. Arya had not felt compelled to take notice of them, but was growing increasingly interested as it became clear they had been solely tasked with watching her. Any duties they may have had previously had fallen by the wayside with her appearance.

The map room seemed to be in the drum tower, they took a path beneath the ground again, and then up several sets of winding stairs. Arya did her best not to question what was happening, it could be any number of things and these people seemed to have a step on her even when she had believed herself to be ahead.

She wore Mercy’s face still and was met with glances of confusion when she was brought into the room. The ‘map’ was a piece of painted canvas slung across a massive rectangular table, markers of different basic shaped scattered across it. At the far end of the table was Aegon, Duck behind him with Connington to their right. Arya hadn’t seen the man in person since her interrogation two evenings previously, though he wore the same expression he had then, as though having eaten something sour and unpleasant just before looking at her.

Strickland, who she had not formally met was next to Connington, entirely clad in his armour, hand on his sword as if having imminent use of it. There were four serjeants gathered, one with dark skin and white hair, Arya recognized as coming from the Summer Isles, others more Westerosi in appearance. She recalled that the Golden Company had been made up during the Blackfyre Rebellions, and knew that of all the mercenary companies attracted more Westerosi fighters than others.

Many had a stake in this impending war, land to return to or claim. It was what had driven Brendel Byrne to conspire on his own and take the rations for his men, beginning a poorly planned conspiracy to hit the Lannisters at Casterly Rock rather than King’s Landing. Or so his squires had revealed when Arya had watched them through the cats. Byrne was notably not in attendance, though many serjeants were not.

Haldon was there as well, near the door, Lemore next to him, and to their right, close to Arya were Arianne Martell and her guard Daemon Sand, both looking rather irate. Arianne was dressed in a more practical manner similar to the clothing the woman who related to her had been wearing at the breakfast, though Arianne’s layers were deep hues of red and orange. 

“You’re late,” Aegon said to Arya as she entered. The prince regarded her as though her arrival had interrupted a conversation.

“Not that I had a ch –” Arya began.

“This is Raya, the bastard of Lord Casper Wylde’s bastard,” Aegon cut her off with a hand and widened warning eyes. “A clever girl who is bound for the Sept. Peake found her when he took Rain House, she offered service to avoid captivity, and for eventual passage to Oldtown. Lemore is maintaining Raya’s learning for the time being, and thus she shall be part of the negotiations as Lemore’s acolyte, proving her service to us and the gods.”

Arya glanced at Lemore whose presence was a small comfort, and the septa gave a nearly imperceptible nod of her head to confirm the scheme.

Little of it made sense, what part could the bastard of a bastard have in negotiations with the Tyrells? No one seemed eager to question the prince, though two of the serjeants exchanged anxious looks and Arianne glanced her up and down. Connington and Aegon continued looking at Arya as the room filled with an uneasy silence. Had they expected her to speak?

“I am eager to help, Your Highness,” she mumbled, imagining herself a hesitant captive was not too difficult to do. 

“Word has it her mother had the will and hands of a pick-pocket, which she inherited and is why she is bound for a life of religion. She will be of value in the camp,” Haldon added as the silence stretched on. “You had a question Balaq?”

“You want half of my men in the keep? It seems too few in the field,” the Summer Islander said, as and he did Arya noted that his cloak was made of colourful feathers, though many seemed matted from rain. He crossed strong arms over his chest as he spoke, golden rings down his upper arms on full display as they were with the other serjeants.

“They don’t know our numbers,” Connington said. “A third of our forces will be within the trees, the others towards the valley of the southern cliffs.  Should negotiations go poorly we call on a few companies from each side depending on Tyrell’s numbers. We would have known their numbers had our guests not felt such a strong need to defend us.”

His pale eyes held disdain, though it was directed at Arianne and Daemon Sand rather than Arya as anticipated.

Arianne began speaking with defiance, her chin in the air and her tone cool as she regarded the Griffin. “Elia reacted much faster than any of _your_ men. The scout had seen we were Dornish from a distance, he’d turned tail to report back. You know the issues we will have if they suspect us of dealing with you. My cousins must able to operate as they please in King’s Landing if you hope to take it with any sort of ease.”

“This has naught to do with your Dornish fancies,” Connington breathed, shaking his head and returning his icy eyes to the map. “Captured scouts are near invaluable. If you wish to truly help us and prove your trustworthiness, you’d recall your cousins from forcing Myrcella Baratheon onto the throne, and your brother from attempting to seduce Daenerys Targaryen.”

“You’ll be grateful for each when they succeed,” Arianna countered.

There was suddenly much information disclosed to Arya , and she wondered if Connington had thought that it might have been better to hold his tongue. If Aegon held his end of the deal, Arya would leave Storm’s End knowing the intentions of all those currently gathered.

“We must focus on tomorrow,” Aegon cut across his mentor and cousin, his voice stern and loud in a way Arya had not heard before, a stir of ferocity swam in his dark eyes. “Balaq, half of your men in the keep to show that we will do our very best to defend a siege. Lothston, Mandrake, and Flowers, you make the proper divisions, a third in the keep, the others in five companies in the trees and valley. Archers will make the call with horns and volleys if we need you to ride in. Report back before dawn and Strickland will relay the signals.”

Connington moved pyramid shaped pieces into the aforementioned valley and forest edge, evidently having agreed or previously planned Aegon’s words.

Arya realized the Tyrell scout must have been killed while Aegon had been riding with the Dornish, and that prince had likely been in talks to prepare for the confrontation since. Her role had clearly been discussed amongst his advisors, though she doubted it had been prior to passing her test of confirming Byrne as their internal perpetrator.

“I’ll be on the ground,” Strickland told his men with an air of pride for his position alongside the prince and Connington, though the latter Lord appeared less enthused. “Peake will be our offering. Lady Lemore, the girl and Ser Farring his Highness’.”

_The girl_. She was the girl, Raya. She’d enter as an offering, a hostage.

What a strange plan.

“Is it wise to hand the castellan to them?” Daemon Sand spoke for the first time, his brown brows knit in concentration.

“Farring knows very little,” Aegon said. “He remains convinced a group of marauders overtook the keep from the cliffs. If he speaks it will only add to their confusion. He’ll be a gift, Tyrell and Rowan have spent a significant portion of their time attempting to take Storm’s End from him. Now that we have it, he is of little use to us unless Stannis Baratheon should emerge from the mists of the Bay tomorrow morning.”

_He could_ , Arya wanted to say, having heard rumours of the man and his red witch.

“If it comes to a siege, we permit it for a day,” Connington continued. “As we know, these men will tire having attempted to take this keep twice already, if it’s not yet their bane it will be when they depart. If we attack it is from the flanks and the rear, though we hope to spare as many lives as possible, these are men and houses we will need going forward.”

A few more details were discussed before Aegon dismissed those from the Golden Company, asking for Arya – Raya –  and Arianne to remain. He spoke first to his cousin, stepping around the table to come nearer.

“We’ve prepared escapes if needed, skiffs at the base of the cliffs with ships docked further south.” With Aegon’s almost willowy figure next to Sand’s large broad one, Arya noted how tiny Arianne was, though it had not affected her tenacity. Something about her slight statue struck fondness within Arya. Seeing another woman, who was likely underestimated, order around grown men was rather refreshing. “From what I’ve learned you’re rather used to remaining in towers for an extended period, though I aim for you to feel less restricted here. If it comes to a pitched battle Haldon will escort you and your companions to safety.”

 Arianne didn’t speak for a moment, pursed her lips in thought.

“And if you should die in a pitched battle?”

“Then you are free to support your Targaryen or Baratheon princess as you please. Though, assuming we avert a siege and I live, I would prefer to send you off as my _ally_ ,” Aegon said, his voice higher and a bit hopeful. Arya felt strange watching the exchange, it was not intimate though seemed as though each was forcing it to be so.

The Dornish princess looked up at Daemon Sand, back to the prince, and nodded.

“I wish you good fortune cousin,” she said with a light smile, “though I expect to see you whole and well in a few days.”

Arya waited until the door closed behind Arianne and Sand before turning to Aegon who moved back to the head of the table.

“Raya?” She asked with incredulity, her tongue sharp. “An acolyte of the Seven? A Wylde bastard? I don’t even know who Casper Wylde is.”

“We exchange hostages before negotiations to avoid treachery within the talks,” Aegon said with a slight frown, affronted by her words.

“I understand why, but how could a septa and her student possibly be worth anything?” Arya asked.

Connington was leaning over the map, Duck stood in a corner and Haldon and Lemore remained in their seats, the latter going to speak before Aegon held her words off by raising his hand.

“Lemore has taught and cared for me as a mother might,” Aegon said, his eyes falling to the Septa, warm and thankful. “They will see the value. Peake took Rain House, and he along with yourself and Farring are proof of our control of Cape Wrath. Bargaining with that control indicates our confidence.”

“We should see that the Company is moving,” Connington stood up from the map abruptly and nodded at Aegon. “Bring her along.”

An unexpected giddiness filled Arya, she all but skipped along with the group, though was drawn to stay beside Lemore. It seemed they would have more precious time together, in the ‘enemy’ camp.

Night was swiftly descending; the sky had been a pale orange when she’d been called from her chambers and it had grown purple and indigo in the time since. The open yard, which Arya wad seeing for the first time, bustled with sellswords and members of the household. Arya could barely see the height of the towering walls even tilting her head back a distance, and when she brought her gaze back to the ground she saw lines of archers marching beneath a massive open gate.

She and the others did not pass through the gate as she expected, but up a number of switch-back steps leading to the top of the wall, which nearly left her breathless at the summit.

Despite the falling evening, the moon was bright and reflecting in the low cloud well enough for Arya to see part of the massive camp outside of the walls. Rows of tents, which had been pitched in perfect squares within perfect rows, were now being dismantled in near uniformity across the part of the plane she could see. Men on horses were riding up and down the aisles throughout the camp shouting orders, and despite the noise and rapid movement, the whole of Golden Company was impressively composed. As though they’d done such a thing a thousand times before. Which they might have, for all Arya knew.

“Someone is keeping time?” Aegon grinned at Connington, appearing for a moment like a young man joking with his father, the exchange casual and easy

“Strickland of course,” the Griffin said with a small frown, looking down at the field.

“He’ll trim the time,” Duck said from next to Aegon, smiling. “I’d count with him when I was squiring, he’d always be a bit off, the oaf.”

“Despite that, they are the most disciplined sellswords you’ll ever see,” said Aegon, now directing his words to Arya. “Nearly efficient as you seem to be.”

“Efficiency which will be essential in the Tyrell camp,” Connington added without looking to her. The prickly Griffin seemed to have accepted her role in their plot, even if it had been the prince who had arranged it all.

“Have you just complimented me?” She asked the man who only scowled in return.

Aegon allowed himself a chuckle. “Jon’s more likely to bed Cersei Lannister than he is to compliment anyone, including me. Though _I_ will thank you for your help with Byrne.”

Arya took a few steps along the wall-walk away from the group to where a block sat along the parapet. She mounted it before turning back.

“Not that you needed my help.” She narrowed her eyes, first at Aegon, and then at Lemore who had confirmed Arya’s task had only been a test. “What will you do with Byrne?”

“Strickland and Flowers know; they will monitor him throughout. We didn’t want to cause a stir before this, though his punishment will be equated with his efforts in the coming days.” Aegon said. “I must admit you have proven yourself, Arya, and through that have allowed us an opportunity to avoid a battle, to avoid losing men.”

Her name struck her for a moment, and instead of responding to the prince’s praise she turned herself back to the wall.

She was not Arya here, not anymore. She wore Mercy’s face and her name was Raya, no surname, the bastard of a bastard. Looking back at the field Raya could scarcely see the movements of the Golden Company beyond the curtain-wall even when standing between its crenellations. It seemed those viewable from this vantage point had already moved their camp.

“What will Raya, worshipper of the Seven do to help?” Raya asked the group. Surely they’d come to the wall to discuss her role, unwilling to do it within the walls of the keep should someone unwanted be listening.

“Twist the knife,” Aegon said. “Lemore and Peake will be doing to the same.”

“How so?”

Lemore cleared her throat, Raya wondered if she had any fear of her life being bargained with by the prince who seemed to care for her so deeply.

“It’s become clear that this newest Faith Militant are dictating much within King’s Landing,” Lemore said. “They’re fanatics, not true servants. They are the ones who have locked up Margaery Tyrell, who have called for each Queen to be on trial. We feel it is likely someone as faithful as you, Raya, or myself have the potential to put the camp at great unease.”

“Peake has allies in the Reach still,” Connington continued before Arya could question the septa further. She stepped from the block and back to those gathered, arms over her chest. “He’ll get his own word around, stir up sentiments of mistrust within their ranks. We expect you to capitalize where you can. Slip from their watch if you can, learn as much as you are able, though I doubt there will be any of your cats around. There will be other ways. You wouldn’t have survived long in this world were you not resourceful, of that I am confident.”

Another veiled compliment, though Raya took care not to call the man on it again. 

“And if it comes to a battle?” She asked them, eyes darting to Connington, to Aegon and Duck in his shadow, to Haldon and Lemore. The idea of a battle was unsettling, knowing the prince and his Kingsguard would likely be in the van of a charge, that if Aegon died the hopes and efforts of those assembled would evaporate into the salty coastal winds. If it came to battle, there was a chance that those exchanged as hostages would mean little to either side, her life and Lemore’s would be forfeit.

“I will be able to handle myself,” Lemore smirked, her brown eyes sincere and the skin around them crinkling with her confident conviction.

“If it comes to a siege or battle and you are able to find yourself within these walls once more, I will reunite you and your dear sword,” Haldon said, dipping his head in a soft bow.  “And send you to the Riverlands on a swift ship with any supplies you may need.”

A swift ship to the Riverlands… Raya – Arya – had not considered how she might get to the Twins, but the offer of further aid was more than she had expected.

Aegon concluded their business, nodded for Raya to leave with Lemore and Haldon, promising to see them all at daybreak.

“I don’t remember any prayers,” Raya said, having decided this was the largest flaw in a generally questionable plan. She could name the Mother, Father, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Stranger, Smith, but could scarce remember an offering to be made to any of them. Lemore and Haldon froze at the top of the steps as they made to begin the steep descent. “You should have asked me who I could be, I’ve practiced with other identities and stories….”

The group chuckled, she was unsure of why as it truly would become an issue if pressed.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Lemore tutted. “I will have my book; we will pray together.”

***

Arya saw Aegon once more before the exchange.

Dawn brought a pink mist to Storm’s End, and standing in the trampled mud just within the grand gates of the keep, Arya could scarcely see halfway up the walls or towers ahead or behind her.

She wore robes similar to Septa Lemore’s though an off-white made of what the septa had said were the linens that had been missing upon their arrival. Beneath she wore her leather breeches, she’d been afforded half of her regular outfit and half that of an acolyte. From her neck hung a pendant in beaten bronze, the Seven-Pointed Star. Arya had never felt particularly spiritual, she had sought the old gods more than the new, but even this somehow felt a betrayal to the person she had returned to Westeros to be.

Aegon, Connington, Strickland, Duck, and Haldon were to set out on horseback first, messengers had already been exchanged in the night, each side asking the other to hold talks rather than leap into battle.

“Mooton and Loi will bring you out once we have agreed to an exchange,” Aegon told Arya the others who had been readied for the trade. He had gestured to her guards, ever faithful, giving them names, though it was unclear which name belonged to which man.

Ser Farring was with Arya and the others, a tall man with a sandy brown beard that may once have been well groomed, and disheveled hair reaching his shoulders. It was clear that he had not been kept in the same fine conditions as Arya had been, she pitied the man for a moment, he didn’t speak and of the four was the only with his hands bound.

Laswell Peake wore his wavy brown hair long with a matching beard and was broad and shorter than Farring, though his brawn made it clear that he had fared well in taking of Rain House. He stood to Arya’s left while Lemore was to her right with Farring at the end.

“You’re the girl then,” Peake had eyed her with inquisitive jade coloured eyes and spoke with a gruff voice, matching his persona as a sellsword more than as a man of the Reach. “Raya, is it?”

Arya nodded.

_Raya_! _I am Raya,_ she had to remind herself.

“Actually did find one of Wylde’s bastard sons, didn’t have a child though. Reachmen won’t know or care,” Peake said in a low voice only for only Arya to hear.

“Best of luck to you all,” Aegon nodded having walked their short rank, unwilling to say more in the presence of Farring. “If the Tyrell host has any sort of sense, I expect to see you all again soon."

The prince pivoted back to Connington, Duck, and Haldon who waited on their horses, Duck holding the prince's reigns in his hands. Aegon’s own mount was understated standing on its own, a destrier of average height, a dun shade with a silky jet black tail and mane. However, once Aegon had hoisted himself into the black leather saddle, his heavy cloak splaying across the rear of his steed, Arya felt that the noble mount now held a man of import.

She could not deny that Aegon looked every part a Targaryen King and not a boy-prince. He wore a simple golden circlet, the first tangible indicator of his intentions for the throne that she had seen. His silver hair was somewhat messy beneath the crown, and a layer of darker stubble lined his jaw which was set with determination. He was clad entirely in an opaque black, his breast-plate was unreflective though had the Targaryen sigil pressed into it. The only red visible was the lining of his cloak, and even this one was such a dark crimson shade it nearly appeared to be colourless.

As he rode out, Arya considered that Aegon was a mighty void, drawing in the light and air around him so that it was impossible not to be caught in his rapturous presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading again! As mentioned above, next update will have some long awaited action, but this set up was necessary. It's mostly written, so expect it in the next few days :)
> 
> Fun fact, Raya is the name of one of Cregan Stark's daughters. 
> 
> Feedback gives this story life, please let me know your thoughts if you have the chance, and thank you to all of those who have commented or been following the story in general! 
> 
> Next chapter:
> 
> “You make me strip and then you would deny me hallowed words?” Lemore was frowning now, utterly serious. Raya had to keep from laughing at the impressive act and wondered, not for the first time, how Lemore had come to be the woman that she was.


	6. Arya V/Aegon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya remembers her lessons and Aegon receives a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep promising chapters and then delaying them... but this one is long! Also, I f'd up last chapter and mixed up Lord Estermont and Gilbert Farring, so I've switched some names up. Oops. This world is confusing as hell sometimes. 
> 
> Hopefully not too confusing to enjoy this chapter!
> 
> (Also, unexpected Aegon POV. I think we can expect more of these in the future).

 

_But it spreads through me like buddleia  / Taking root in the farthest corners of my body / My body's overgrown / There's an intruder here_

\- Before Breakfast,  _Buddleia_

 

 

Arya

Their hands were bound by a thick, grating rope that pulled and pressed at Raya’s still injured arm. Peake and Farring were separated from Lemore and Raya the moment they approached the Tyrell host, and upon their arrival Raya saw that camp was laid out in a strange manner, separated into two distinct sections. To the north of an uneven and meandering gulley were thousands of basic tents with a few open patches and larger holdings set in the middle, the encampment stretching further than Raya was able to see. They were led to the south of the natural boundary, where there was only a dozen or so round large tents, all flagged with the Tyrell Rose and Lannister Lion.

She and Lemore were taken through the entrance of one such shelter and were immediately commanded to strip by one of their three escorts.

“Seven save us!” Lemore admonished. “Have you no decency?

“Only to your undergarments,” another explained as he released the binding around their hands. “Searching for weapons is all. Refuse and we’ll search you ourselves.”

The Reachmen themselves were dressed in what was finery compared to the more piecemeal garb of the Golden Company Raya had grown used to. Cloaks and tunics were embroidered or at least stamped with flora of various kind, the sigils on surcoats were woven with intricate fine threads, their armour shone as though never before used.

Raya and Lemore did as they were told, Raya having experienced several situations previously that made her indifferent to such exposure. Despite her protests, the septa seemed to have little problem unwrapping her robes and slipping her skirt down her body with a shake of her hips so that it pooled on the floor in a manner that made her appear both frustrated and seductive.

The men rifled through the robes apparently unaffected by the older woman and pulled Lemore’s small square book from a pocket within her robes.

“A prayer book, my Lords,” she said, frowning as the man flipped through it with dirtied fingers. “I may be a hostage, but I will pray for a swift resolution, not just here today, but across the realm in the coming months.”

“Should have thought of that before you landed with the Griffin and his pretender lad,” the man holding the book grumbled before shutting it and examining its plain cover.  “You really need this to remember your prayers, Septa?”

“You make me strip and then you would deny me hallowed words?” Lemore asked, her distaste deepening and her tone utterly serious. Raya had to keep from laughing at what appeared to be an impressive act and wondered, not for the first time, how Lemore had come to be the woman that she was.

The three men turned to one another, one quite blonde and with sharp blue eyes, more a boy than the others wore a discomforted frown. With the book placed back in its pocket, their robes were returned with a toss onto the canvas floor at Raya and Lemore’s feet.

“Keep your prayers to yourself. We’ll bring food and water as talks proceed. This tent is guarded though it does not mean you should feel compelled to call upon us unless you need to piss. Test us, attempt to escape and you’ll start a slaughter.”

There were two poorly made stools in the tent with a low table between them and two bedrolls laid out, each with a pile of blankets. Lemore took to one of the stools once she and Raya were clothed, and began untying and retying her heavy brown hair into a knot.

Raya felt she should be doing something… anything other than sitting and waiting.

“Oh come,” Lemore gestured for Raya to join. “There is little for us to do now. Did I not tell you there would be time for stories? Or we could play a game, could we not?”

It was not an offer, Lemore smiled in a forced manner that made it clear Raya was meant to agree and participate.

“What game would you like to play?” Raya asked, joining the septa, unsure if she would enjoy what the woman offered.

"Though we have shared a few lessons, I should like to know you better, Raya. Would it be alright if I asked you about yourself? If you answer, you may ask after me as well, and so on.”

Raya agreed, aware of the many unspoken rules and implications.

Septa Lemore pulled the book from her pocket and set it on the table. With her eyes that were reminiscent of chestnuts, round and dark, she regarded Raya. “You have shown that you are not a typical girl, not one usually keen to serve the Seven, though you have expressed your affinity for the Stranger. How has this come to be?”

It was a loaded question, and Raya felt that she knew the game they were to play. Coded language, veiled meanings and intentions. Just has it had been in Storm's End.

“I am a stranger,” she said with care, her words slow and deliberate, half-truths for Arya, feigned truths for Raya. “I was born from a sinful woman who left me to my father, who then died when I was young. I have no brothers or sisters. I have lived in a home that wasn't my own. The Stranger reminds me of who I am."

The answer seemed to satisfy Lemore despite it revealing little detail of Arya Stark. Lemore began running a finger along the worn cover the book, leather laid over a board that was frayed at the corners and the binding along the spine. 

“Your turn.”

“How did you come to love the Seven so?” Raya asked, curiosity peaking at Lemore’s movements.

The Septa sighed but maintained her persistent smile. "In truth, I did not always. But the Mother gave me strength when I needed it, when life was it's cruelest and most unyielding."

On the final word, Lemore pushed hard against the bottom of the cover with her thumb and then pulled, producing a slim silver piece of metal with a pointed end. Her eyes met Raya’s once more and she gave a snort of innocent laughter, laying the slim, finger-lengthed blade on the table.

“I was a godless woman, sinful as you said of your mother, though I imagine our deeds were different.” Lemore continued. “I did many terrible things for which I was ultimately punished before finding the Mother. She has guided me so. I have never known someone to seek comfort from the Stranger. Do you find your qualms are frequently soothed? I believe the Mother could aid you when the Stranger remains unforthcoming.”

Lemore’s hand had gone to the top of the cover, where she extracted another blade. Once set on the table Arya saw that the base of the first blade had a channel and that the base of the second had a strip of metal jutting out. The septa slid the two bases alongside each other and there was a faint clicking noise.

Out of the septa’s battered prayer book had come a blade the length of Raya’s hand.

“I expect the Crone may be a help,” Raya said unable to avoid the jest and Lemore rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Was that your question?

“Yes, I suppose it was. And yes, she may. She can be known to provide encouragement masked as caution.”

Raya had her next question prepared, though it was one she had previously posed to the septa, hoping now to receive at least a veiled answer. “How did you meet the Prince?”

“I was given an opportunity to right the wrongs of my past,” Lemore said, her voice losing its fluidity and sinking to a deeper tone. “Though it was unsettling to depart from Westeros, I found comfort in my role as a septa. I had been traveling with other brothers and sisters of the Faith when I was approached to leave, and with great reflection, I knew it was the path the gods had chosen for me.”

With the prayer book slid back into her pocket, Lemore began to remove a necklace Raya had not noticed had been hiding in the neckline of her robes. A Seven-Pointed Star, engraved on a round golden face, quite different to the start shaped pendant adorning Raya’s neck.

“If you could be anyone, Raya, who would you be? If the land were not constantly torn asunder by these wars, do you believe you’d have been the same girl you are now?”

The knife was in Lemore’s hand, and she held it to one side where the matched edged were blunt, slipping the tip into a catch along her pendant. Nothing seemed to happen as a result. 

Arya didn’t have an answer for Lemore’s question, she couldn’t begin to fathom a world any different from that she lived in now. What had she wanted to do as a small child besides play with her brothers in the yard and do as they did? There had been little consideration of a future beyond that of doing her best to act the opposite of Sansa.

Raya however, was able to construct a response. 

“I’d be the daughter of a lord, a good lord,” Raya said her eyes on Lemore struggling with the pendant. “I’d have brothers and sisters, and cousins who were like brothers and sisters. Perhaps I would consider the sept, though on my own terms and not on the whims of others.”

As she spoke the locket broke open, and out of it popped a miniscule round bottle swirling with a familiar cloudy liquid. Lemore held it in her palm before placing it on the table and fastening her pendant back together and putting it around her neck once more. When it fell against her skin, Raya saw that the opposite face was an engraved three-headed dragon.

“Would you wish to marry, have children? Entering the Faith as you intend would make such things impossible.” The septa continued carrying the conversation with ease despite slowing revealing herself to have stored an arsenal of tools within her clothing.

 “If the kingdoms were not at war,” Raya nodded in agreement, casting away Arya’s thoughts and focusing on her own. Mercy had been a mummer too and Raya was inherently one as well. “And if I were not in the sept, of course. I think I might enjoy a life outside of a keep too, I would have liked to grow up surrounded by fields and green hills.”

Lemore had resumed digging within her robes, a glance up at Raya encouraged the girl to continue.

“I would want to keep busy, however, as I have in this life. I don't expect I could be one of the wives or mothers who sits and chatters all day…" She proceeded to do just that, rattling out nonsense by thinking of all the stifling tasks Arya had been forced to sit through, all of the boring audiences her mother had held. Her words may have made little sense, but it hardly mattered as they were only meant to help cover the trimming snaps that came as Lemore cut through a layer of her inner robes, eventually revealing a hidden, and now open, pouch within.

“Perhaps you may yet have that future? You are now in the service of the prince, your fate is no longer decided by those at Rain House. Of course, the Faith would be blessed to have such an adherent as yourself, though you should only go on your own volition, not out of obligation. The Seven would prefer a willing servant, I expect.”

As she spoke, Lemore extracted an object from the pouch. It was leathery and supple, and without an apparent uniform shape until it was set on the table. 

A face. The face Arya had not yet worn.

Lemore looked to Raya as silence settled between them.

Did Lemore mean to allow her to escape now? But Needle was within the Keep, and she would be ferried to the Riverlands if she succeeded here. Surely, Lemore did not mean to counter Aegon and Connington’s plans.

"I believe you should think about what I have told you," Lemore said, moving the small bottle of potion closer to the face to make it clear that the two belonged together. The blade was also slid towards Raya “Ask for guidance when you pray tonight, and imagine yourself as that girl before you sleep. If all goes well here, our prince may grant you an opportunity when we return.”

 _If all goes well_. _Our Prince_. No, Lemore was not abandoning the plan. This _was_ the plan. Raya would become another tonight; she would look to fulfil her duties in the Tyrell camp.

Raya took the face, unsure who it had belonged to and of what memories lurked within it. Lemore placed a gentle hand on Raya’s.

“Patience, remember our lesson?”

Arya had been counselled in the punishment of patience briefly, and while her days of boredom in Storm’s End had been penal in nature, it became clear they would not compare to the punitive whims of Septa Lemore.

Once Raya had taken care to hide the blade, potion, and face within pockets and layers of her own clothing, Lemore took her to the bedrolls where they began reciting prayers. _Actually_ praying was not something she had anticipated being forced into, but she had underestimated either the women's devotion to her gods or her devotion to playing her part as a pious woman. Some words were faintly familiar, ones Arya had been meant to learn as a girl and certainly ones Raya should have well known as a girl destined for faithful duty. Arya Stark, however, had learned to pray very differently as she grew older, and it had very much been a prayer of the Stranger.

Each time a soldier arrived the either with water, food or news, Lemore took care to wish him well, or warn him about the fate awaiting those who did not properly conduct themselves around women sworn to the gods. The choice between the words was dependent on the man's expression upon entering the tent. Often, Lemore was ignored, though some men cursed further at her while others offered their own nod and address of, “Seven Blessings” _._

Eventually, word came around that the talks between the Lords Tyrell, Rowan and Ser Fossoway and the “pretenders from the east” would continue in the morning. Lemore and Raya crawled onto their bedrolls and feigned sleep for what felt a decade before the septa shook her to attention.

“You should do it now,” Lemore said in a low voice, still horizontal on the ground a short distance from Raya. There were lights outside of the tent somewhere, and the septa’s face was mostly covered in shadow, but Raya felt her urgency. “There are only three outside, I will ask to go and relieve myself, that will leave two. We can shape the blankets to make it look as though you are here sleeping. You must be swift. Just enough time to gather some information and incite some trouble where you can.”

Raya’s heart began thrumming. This was it. There should have been a touch of nervousness within her, but her very core to the tips of her fingers sparked with anticipation.

“When I am finished?”

“I go out once more, an anxious, aging septa such as myself could very well have a weak bladder,” Lemore grinned. “Make a call of some sort, and I will ensure you can return.”

Raya felt at the mask within her clothing and the small portion of her potion. She realized that someone would have taken the items from her bag and that it was likely Lemore. Despite the invasion of her privacy, she could not be too upset considering her current circumstance. “I won’t be able to change here again.”

 “Wear your hood in the morning, remain in prayer.”

So Raya began to change her face using her newly acquired blade to make a small cut on her forehead. Despite the skin peeling off easily enough, it stung as she pulled at the chin, and then around her jaw and near her ears, as though each tiny hair on her face was being slowly lifted out by the root.

She was Arya again, fully Arya though only briefly. She prepared for the new face; drinking the potion, pricking her forehead once more for fresh blood to help seal the mask. It didn’t occur to her until afterwards that she had revealed her secret in its entirety, though she cared much less now than she had when sharing it with Aegon.

There were fainted memories with the new face, memories of weariness, a slow illness, achy arms and legs, and a heavy head. She knew that when she slept she would experience the memories ten-fold, and was thankful that it would likely be a sleepless night. 

“What do I look like?” Her new self, though still Raya, asked in a whisper.

“Blonde, I think,” Lemore narrowed her eyes against the darkness, half sitting to watch the process. “Short hair. Unremarkable, though your skin is darker. Give me your robes.”

Raya nodded, shaking the recollections of a half-forgotten sickness from her head. Soon she was wearing only her regular clothing and had slotted the small blade into a pocket at her thigh. Lemore rustled with Raya’s bedding, plumping blankets and arranging the off-white robes to appear that they covered a sleeping head while Raya crept into the darkest bit of the tent, the corner where the table and stools sat.

Lemore called for a guard from the entrance of the tent, and Raya watched as the shadow of a soldier as well as Lemore’s moved away.  At the same time, the remaining guard shifted nearer the entry flap, leave the very corner Raya sat it rather unwatched. There was enough give at the base of the canvas wall for Raya to slip her head beneath, and as she did Lemore sneezed loudly in the distance.

Raya grinned as she pulled herself out. While ensuring to remain flat on the ground she found that this newest persona was nearly the same size as Mercy. Stature had been a consideration when she made off with an additional face, knowing it would be a younger woman, knowing that playing the part of such a woman would be much simpler than attempting to be someone wholly different from herself.

It took a moment to process that she had made it out. A quick glance around reminded her that their grouping of tents was somewhat isolated from the regular camp, which was lowly lit from across a small stretch of dark field. It would easy enough to cross. Men on watch were dotting the perimeter, though some stood in clusters, ignorant of any threat that may be concealed in the night. It was possible that the Reachmen had truly underestimated the numbers of the Golden Company.

Before making any further movement, and for a singular breath, she felt near to crying in unreserved relief.

This was it. Her final task for Aegon.

And then she could be Arya Stark of Winterfell, she could go to the Twins wreak the havoc she craved there. Then she could go to the Wall and see Jon and remain as long as the winter storms would allow. Once she had seen him, once she had done what she could for the north, she would return south. She would kill Cersei Lannister and Meryn Trant and Ilyn Payne. Perhaps with that done, Aegon’s path to the throne will have been made easier. He might owe her yet again.

Raya started across the unlit field, deciding to dart at first before she unexpectedly hit a descent and recalled the gulley that had separated the two camps, catching herself from sliding into it at the last moment. She could smell the stale mud that it held, the stagnant water and could hear the low buzzing of insects along the it's surface. 

 _Be careful_! It was too many times now that she had not properly observed ahead, had not considered precisely which steps to take. Always headstrong, always rushing, but she had to remember that she had been learning patience for years and not just in the Stormlands. To forget that lesson and all the others would mean her years of struggle in Braavos were for naught.

Following a breath of recovery, she took care in her crossing, testing her footing before committing to the stealthy leap across. Once it was clear that the semi-watchful clustered men to the east and west had not noticed her movement, she made to the nearest tents.

 _Quiet as a shadow_ , the words playing in her head without provocation. But she couldn’t be a shadow here and had to predict the path of the light thrown from torches and posts she neared to ensure that she did not cast a shadow.

 _Dark as night_. _That’s better._

The tents pitched along the edge were rather quiet, any murmured conversations coming from deeper with the rows of shelter. She focused on those that were lit inside, silhouettes of sitting men plain on the canvas of the tents. Even further in were fires which burned in the night, creating a smoky haze above that refracted the slice of moonlight in the sky and lit the camp from above. Around the fires were more men as well as small barrels of ale and crates of supplies, though she had no intentions on approaching them to commence her adventure.

Instead, she neared the closest illuminated tent and crouched low at the moorings of another tent that sat opposite, which was dark and silent. Listening was similar to how it had been with the cats, she focused on the voices, somewhat warbled from the distance, and pushed the other noises of the night from her head.

“It’s your go,” one voice said, and there was the sound of cards being laid out on a surface, a light slap. “Slimy bastard, you are. Ahh, take it.”

Coin was exchanged between two hands, good-natured obscenities tossed about, and it became clear these men at least had little to offer Raya. So she crept to another tent, four spots to the east, further from the central fires.

Tucked against opposite moorings again, it was easier to hear the conversation of this next group as there was little background noise infiltrating apart from the whistling of crickets and general hiss of nature’s nightly noises.

“Concerning about Oldtown,” a man was saying. “Expected to go back to Highgarden with Ser Garlan, grateful I didn’t, honestly. I’d rather face this motley bunch than that mad Kraken.”

“Wouldn’t pass them off so quick. I heard Laswell Peake was part of the exchange. Motley bunch they may be, but they have Westerosi men.”

“Won’t be any different than the killing we’re used to then,” a third voice joined, the others pausing.

“Really think we’ll fight?”

“Aye,” the third voice said. Raya felt herself leaning in to listen, but rocked backward to prevent her unconscious forward momentum. “You think Lord Mace will go back to the Lannisters empty handed? The Old Griffin’s nephew was in the exchange; I don’t expect that to be innocent. Mark my words, those talks will fall through come morning.”

The others grumbled in agreement.

Connington’s nephew? Raya knew little of House Connington apart from their holdings at Griffin’s Roost. But she understood how vengeance, the desire to reclaim what had been lost. Had they baited Connington by handing his nephew over? Did they expect either man to instigate a battle? As much as she disliked the Griffin in their short meetings, she couldn’t believe he could be baited so easily.

Their conversation turned to other matters, past battles fought in the Riverlands, and Arya did not wish to hear of it. Arya had lived it; she’d seen the horrors of it all.

Lightened tents were few and far between, and as Raya moved amongst them she realized that the lack of noise was strange. Surely a camp of men, some expecting to fight, would be restless. Or perhaps they’d grown so used to war that sleep no longer troubled them as it might have.

Little information had been gathered, and she remembered it wasn’t her only task. If they were to go to war tomorrow Raya expected she and Lemore would not be willingly returned. No, she needed to cause a stir, something to unsettle these seemingly assured men.

Arya had always been able to incite mayhem as a child through the simplest of actions. Then, she had only laughed and couldn’t understand why the adults had scolded her so. Now, she understood how unnerving it was when something within your control, even the most mundane of things, abruptly went awry. It would have to be something small yet noticeable, just enough to have the soldiers questioning why such a thing would occur.

At an intersection of sleeping tents, Raya decided to cut at the ropes holding one down, sawing at the twine until it frayed and then snapped so that the corner of the tent flung up and collapsed inwards with a small crash of metal and wood. She scampered away, around another corner, waiting for shouts, a reaction of any sort. But nothing came from the immediate vicinity, though a nearby patrol five or so rows over was alerted to the noise and rushed closer. Raya remained hidden in the dark passage between two tents, out of their path and sightline. 

“Fucking Tyrell imbeciles, don’t know how to pitch a tent,” one man said while the other laughed, neither checking for men within.

“Probably the green Highgarden boys. Used to feather beds and stone walls.”

As they departed, Raya returned to the half-collapsed tent and waited a few more breaths for a sign of movement. When there was none she went within, slinking through the entrance on her knees, finding bedrolls and clothing, small pots and back flung around. But no men. And no armour or weapons that she could see or feel.

Perhaps they were on watch. She touched around for a moment, hoping to find something that might be of unexpected use, and then her hand clasped around a velvety piece of clothing. It was difficult to see it properly with canvas walls filtering out the moonlight, and she crept back out of the tent. Around her, the air remained still. 

The item was a surcoat of sorts, with velvet ribbing in a dark colour, golden letters embroidered somewhat hastily in the center. It may have represented a house, should couldn’t make the lettering out well, but the entire piece was too small for a man grown. A squire’s coat?

Raya, not being a grown man, and instead a small girl with close-cropped hair, tugged the piece over her own leathers, hoping that if someone did catch a glimpse of her, they’d assume she was of their camp.

Her feet took her back towards the central fires and she noticed here that some tents were occupied by slumbering men, their snoring emitting into the night air. She stopped at one. Seven men were conversing around the fire ahead, some sitting, some standing, and too many to avoid their collective gaze if her shadow were to be caught.

So she pulled the small knife once more and cut at the ropes of the nearest tent of sleeping men. It didn’t give nearly as much as the empty tent, though the springing free of the rope did jolt one corner of the structure and someone within swore loudly through the bleariness of sleep. Raya hit the next text as well, a similar reaction filling the air, and catching the attention of those at the fire.

Four men left to investigate. She made her way around the aisles of tents so that she approached the fire opposite of where a small commotion was now punctuating the night. Those who remained at the fire had shrugged off the incident and continued their conversation. Raya crouched once more, ensuring that she was positioned far behind a collection of crates and casks.

“Found them at Maidenpool,” one man, sitting on a crate near the flames, warming his hands said to the other two. One was sitting on his rear on the grass, uncaring, while the other stood, stoic, hand on his chin and looking into the flames. “Didn’t get many honestly, but a few. Enough for the arms and clothing.”

"How is Rowan so sure?" The one standing asked, rubbing at his thick beard. "He failed to take the place with even its weak garrison."

“I was there,” the second one who was sitting on the ground said, his tone more casual than the others. “Farrings’s men were fleeing, some half butchered when they reached our lines. Few thought it was the Golden Company, just renegades from the sea. Rowan’s pieced together how Old Connington did it.”

Silence passed between the men as Raya attempted to uncover the meaning of their words, but she couldn’t. What _was_ clear was the doubt in the words of the man who stood, and the assurance of the one sitting.

“If we’d take it, I’d like to stay,” the man near the fire said, more neutral than the others. “King’s Landing, the fucking mess. Could slip in a pile of human shit at any moment, could be branded by those Sparrow fuckers. Could step on the wrong stone and be blown to bits with green fire.”

 _Green fire?_ Arya hadn’t seen green fire in her time in the capital, nor any _Sparrows,_ whatever they were.

“They’ve said the accidents are from old caches left from the Mad King, bits going off at random,” the sitting man continued, fervor intruding in his voice. “But I heard the Queen Regent burned the Tower of the Hand with the stuff. After Blackwater, well, how better to keep pirates and dragons at bay?”

The other two men were silent for a second, and then both erupted in spluttered of laughter, now united in bewilderment at the third man.

“You don’t believe there are dragons,” the standing man shook his head. “Dafter than you look, Blackbar.”

“I heard a fair bit at Maidenpool,” Blackbar said, “it was always those from Essos speaking of them. One of the men we captured said they didn’t ‘need the girl’s dragons, just the boy’. She has those beasts, or half of Essos has gone mad believing it. Rowan believes it too. It’s dangerous not to in my opinion. Tyrell’s a fucking daft loon, more than myself, doubt he’d believe they existed till they’d sunk their teeth in his gut.”

The four who had left to deal with the sprung tents were returning now, accompanied by those who had been in the tents, now awake and apparently reluctant to continue sleeping.

Raya left, slipping westwards down select dark passages once more and towards the small rift between the two sets of camp. Her own tent and a few larger ones were well-defined across the way, she kept them in her sights as she moved.

Her vision was suddenly blocked, her body stumbling backwards. It took a moment to realize that a guard had stepped into her, though a small huff of surprise escaped the man in the same moment Arya bit her tongue to stop the same noise from leaving her lips.

She didn’t think, there wasn’t time.

The knife went into his gut, just below the edge of the breast-plate, though she knew the wound wouldn’t be enough to kill him. As she pulled back, she noticed a golden tree blooming across his plate, gold on tarnished silver, though it had no meaning to her in that moment. The guard gasped, dropping a weapon from his hand, and as he leaned ever so slightly down to look at the wound, Raya lunged upwards, driving the blade into his throat, just where it met his lower jaw. The was some resistance apparent beneath the skin, just for a moment, and she knew she'd caught his windpipe.

A hoarse wheeze left the man as he grappled at his throat. He stumbled as blood began running down his hands and as he failed to collect another breath. Raya stepped away, waited for a moment to ensure he’d fall, and he did. A faint scent of iron tickled up her nose, her mouth bitter with the phantom taste of it.

Then she ran, though when pressed with crossing the gulley once more realized that her hands had been slicked with the man’s blood. The ground was firmer here, the mud less liquid that where she had initially passed, but it was enough for her to wipe her hands around in it. She removed the squire’s coat and sloughed the blend dirt and gore from her. Rising, Raya took a few steps in the mud, hoping to leave some sort of tracks, though doubted they’d remain until morning. Then she slid her feet from the boots and stepped onto the bank, hoping to leave less of a trail, and if she did, a confusing one. Using the piece of clothing one final time, she swiped the mud from her boots as best she could, returned them to her feet, and threw the surcoat back into the ditch near her tracks.

Her heart was racing, the pace of a horse at a gallop, thrumming in her ears and throat, her eyes watering with the rush that had grown unfamiliar in her short time away from Braavos. Once near her and Lemore’s shared tent, she lowered herself to the ground a few paces from where she had made her escape. Despite the beating of her chest against the earth, Raya gave a short, low and somewhat shaky whistle, like the hoot of an owl. 

Lemore did not appear. As a few breaths passed, Raya momentarily considered running to where the Golden Company was hidden at the crest of the nearby valley but realized that even if one of the men there had met Raya they would not recognize the girl she was now.

Her thoughts turned to the conversation at the camp.

 _Rowan’s pieced together how Old Connington did it_.

 _Did what_? She was near to hissing her question into the night. Rowan meant to employ his knowledge of course, and the mention of Connington’s nephew was likely linked to his completed puzzle. Raya couldn’t be sure what it meant, only that something was going to happen, that the forces of the Reach meant to take Storm’s End by any means possible.

Two shadows passed near the front of the tent as she heard light footfalls on the damp ground, a rustling of midnight dew and soil and blades of grass. And then a laugh. Lemore’s laugh.

The two guards remained away from the corner she’d escaped from, and keeping her silence began slipping into the tent feet first.

Her foot hit a stool. It fell into something else and gave off a quiet tumbling noise paired with the clatter of a spilled pitcher of water and before she could think of how to cover the noise, Raya whisked into the tent and threw herself onto the bedroll. As she landed she collected the blankets and robes alike over her body, ensuring her head and feet were covered.

The entry flaps slapped open.

“Girl!”

She didn’t reply, tried to even her panting by breathing deeply through her nose and exhaling through her mouth.

“Girl!”

“What?” She grumbled, attempting grogginess.

The guard made a garbled statement, evidently annoyed she was in fact present and sleeping. She didn't dare move, not even when Lemore entered and gave an exclamation at the state of the tent.

“Oh, the water’s spilled! Suppose I didn’t set it down properly. Could I bother you for another pitcher?” Her voice was melodic as she spoke to the soldier.

“That terrible here that you’re trying to piss yourself to death?” The guard asked, though his tone was also light, Arya imagined he was wearing a small grin. "I'll be back, my Lady."

Raya remained a statue, Lemore going to the corner of the tent and setting the small stool and vessel upright.

“Didn’t know that was there,” Raya mumbled, unsure if Lemore would hear.

Lemore did and responded through a sigh that was veiled as a yawn. “Would’ve been strange for me to move it. Sleep, we’ll speak in the morning.”

Raya didn’t want to sleep, she knew she’d not be capable, but also knew that Lemore would not wish to speak through the night. Raya held her tongue, her body restless though she persisted in her stillness, knowing the remnants of mud, and possibly blood might dirty the items around her and give her away. At some point, the night claimed her, her eyelids heavy, and she slept. In her briefs dreams, she felt that her body was rotting from within.

***

She was startled awake from memories of her night, immediately saw that her hands were covered in a mess of caked blood and mud and that she had kicked off her boots in the night, revealing her feet to be equally dirty. 

Lemore appeared to be sleeping still, the light outside was a pale purple shade, suggesting that it was only dawn. Raya took the pitcher of water, now filled, from the table and poured a small amount onto her hands, wringing the mess off, and sprinkling her feet before wiping them with a blanket. Then she pulled on her off-white robes, creating a hood of sorts to hide her blond hair. She wondered how different her facial features were and if the men would notice a change. She hadn't really spoken to the guards, and Lemore had played them well enough to have gathered their attention and keep it from Raya.

There was no sign of conflict outside. If all had gone as excepted, the dead man would have been discovered with the squire's garb nearby and there would be an accusation of someone within the camp having committed murder. Perhaps they would believe there was another pest within their ranks, clipping tents to divert attention.

Sowing unease had only been one matter. The matter concerned the expectation of a battle amongst the Tyrell men, an imminent attack planned by Rowan, and the potential trigger that Connington’s nephew might be for some sort of catastrophe. With the little information she had, it was impossible to say when it would happen. Perhaps during the talks when Aegon and his advisors were out of the keep so it could be easily taken and leave them without. Perhaps it would happen once they were inside, their throats cut in the dark when they believed peace or some sort of understanding was on the horizon.

Either way, someone needed to know. As much as Raya – no Arya – wanted to believe that she needed Aegon’s victory to enable her future plans, she had to acknowledge that she was playing a vital role in the game and that she had grown to care, even marginally, about a small group of other players. It had always been simpler, lonelier yes, but simpler to be alone, to advocate for herself and no one else.

_I should have seen this coming._

“Septa Lemore,” Raya called as she returned to her bedding, acting though she’d just awoken.

“Yes, dear?” Lemore asked, her back to Raya though her voice clear, indicating she had been very much awake.

“I think I must leave,” Raya said, her voice trembling slightly for anyone else who may be listening. “I thought of your words, of my future. I do not think I can become a septa, I have done terrible things in my past. Things which plague me with strange dreams.”

 _Terrible things_ , Raya hoped desperately Lemore would catch her meaning.

“You can repent,” Lemore offered, still turned away. “The gods are forgiving when you ask it of them. It is what I did, it is why I am here now. I would have been lost without their forgiveness.”

"Perhaps," Raya mused, attempting to remain cryptic while transmitting her urgency. "Do you believe the Prince will allow me to return to Rain House? I was not loved there, but it was my home, and perhaps I could make it into one again.”

She didn’t care that her story was becoming inconsistent, the transmission of her message was more vital than a mummer’s musing.

“If you do your duty here, he may,” said Lemore, drawing out her words with questioning within them, silently asking Raya what she intended to truly say.

"Then I am eager to return, do what I can to help within Storm's End. I fear what may happen to me if the Tyrell's take the keep, however. No one cares for a bastard."

“No one has taken it before, Raya, except for the prince.”

 _Yes, exactly,_ Raya thought. “What if they learn how he took it, and they do the same?”

Lemore turned slowly to face Raya, her dark eyes wide as she read Raya’s tensed expression. The septa raised her brows in questioning. Raya nodded.

 _They’re going to take the keep_ , she wanted to say. She thought of the man speaking of Maidenpool, of a captured man speaking of Aegon, choosing him over Daenerys Targaryen.

“I had a dream of green men dressed in gold,” Raya whispered, her voice hurried as she began slotting the scraps of facts into place. “And a young griffin, flying above them.”

She was beyond thankful for Lemore’s cunning, for whatever life Lemore had lived before this that had given her the nerve and wit she possessed. The woman seemed to understand, her face contracting in concentration and then concern, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Did you dream of anything else?”

“A golden tree,” Raya whispered. “A felled golden tree. It had been fighting with the flowers below.”

Raya did not know the house of the man she had killed, but Lemore seemed to know. 

 “Oh, come here my dear,” Lemore fussed, moving closer and pulling Raya into an embrace. Her lips nearly touched Raya’s ear, her breath was soft and even. “You must ride.”

***

Aegon

On the second morning, Aegon chose to wear the black iron chain with the three rubies, the gift Illyrio had given him before they departed to meet the Golden Company. That day that seemed half a lifetime away…

Aegon hadn’t wished to display the little regalia he possessed, hoping to save it for more important men than Mace Tyrell. However, there was an additional factor of intimidation he wanted to utilize as little to no progress had been made the previous day.

The rubies were not enough it seemed. Harry Strickland of all people had come to him in the yard, the Captain of the Golden Company kneeling lower than Aegon had ever seen the man go. With two raised hands, Strickland presented the prince with a cloth covered sword. 

Aegon knew what it was before taking it.

 _Blackfyre_.

As confident as he had been in coming to Westeros, leading the charge on Storm’s End, there was a deep fist of anxiety in his chest that signaled to him that he was not worthy of _this_ sword. Aegon hesitated a moment, his hand hovering over the concealed hilt. Then, with a fortifying breath, he clasped a hand firmly around the legendary weapon.

There were questions of course. Why Strickland had waited until now to present it to Aegon, if Strickland had consulted with Griff, if Griff even knew that the sword had remained in the Golden Company’s possession after Bittersteel had refused it to his own kin. 

They were forgotten briefly as he pulled the cloth away to reveal the weapon that Aegon the Conqueror had yielded in these very lands. The grip was a pattern of thin snaking and intertwining dragons whose heads, set with onyx eyes, curved ever so slightly to form the guard. At the base was an octagonal cut ruby, nearly glowing beneath a thin frame of blackened steel. The blade had the infamous rippling blue sheen of Valyrian steel, though Aegon had never his eyes on such a thing before, had never felt such lightness in such a lengthy sword.

Griff gave no reaction, it was possible such a moment had been planned between the two men.

Aegon removed his castle-forged sword and handed it to Duck, wondering briefly how he’d ever settled for such a meek weapon by comparison.

The moment was surreal, his mind clouding with a blur of astonishment and later he couldn’t remember which words of thanks he’d given Strickland, though he knew he’d been careful not to lay the praise too thickly else the man’s head grow larger.

Both the rubies at his neck – their sheen reminiscent of his father he was told – and Blackfyre at his hip caught the attention of Rowan, Tyrell and the Fossoway Knight of Cider Hall. The three men had seemed agitated when Aegon arrived, and the sight of his ancestral fittings only added to their discomfort. Rowan, who sat to the right of red-faced Tyrell began scratching at his greying beard, his narrow dark eyes uneasy as they spoke. Fossoway did not fidget in the same way, though he sat slightly forward, body tensed when he glanced at Aegon’s belt.

The men made little to no attempt to hide their mounting anxiety, and when Tyrell began stumbling his words, Aegon exchanged a glanced with Griff. Something was happening, or something had happened, and not just the arrival of a conspicuous Targaryen. It could have been any number of things, but it seemed that their hostages might have managed to craft some chaos.

As they continued negotiations it was evident that neither side was near to giving, and each knew it as the speaking in circles and avoidance of consensus carried over from the previous day.

“A sword proves nothing,” Fossoway was saying in response to Aegon having pressed his legitimacy once more, to no avail. It hardly mattered, he only needed time. Time for Peake to find his friends, for Lemore to glean what she could in her ways, for Arya Stark to rattle them. Another night, or at least the evening. It would be over in two days if the siege began on the morrow. “If anything it makes you seem a Blackfyre, surely more of those bastards kicking around than Targaryen babes.”

“You are fools if you do not see yourself as stretched,” Griff was grumbling, turning again to the warning they had offered many a time. “You lose men here, against us, and you have fewer men to combat the Greyjoys, to maintain the Riverlands, to keep King’s Landing in functioning order. You would give us everything we wish for. Would it be so difficult to recall your past loyalties?”

Truthfully, swaying men to their side would be ideal. Aegon was thankful for the Golden Company, proud that they had chosen to follow him, but he needed Westerosi allies, and not only the Dornish. Griff knew that, and it was why his advisor pushed for a deal. Strickland also pressed for one, though Aegon knew it was the man's determination to avoid a battle that had influenced him more than anything else.

Tyrell began droning on about his confidence in his son Garlan dealing with the Greyjoy threat, the strength of Oldtown itself. Aegon couldn’t listen anymore, and his attention was easily caught by a figure emerging on the horizon.

It was a rider, a fast one who did not slow as they approached the pavilion, mud and rocks kicked up by the horse as it came closer. They were cloaked, a green cloak, a Tyrell man likely. Aegon went to stand as Rowan and the others did, but Griff caught his wrist in warning.

The rider was small, accounting for their speed and they streaked past the Tyrell mounted knights who had stood in a line behind their Lords during the talks. The muddied horse reared only when approaching the knights posted behind Aegon’s half of the pavilion. Duck rose while drawing his sword, a whistle of metal filling the air as he turned to face the possible assailant.

Muck skidded up around the pale grey horse, an earthy scent permeated in its wake. The rider pushed back the heavy hood to reveal an unfamiliar face beneath, a sickly looking girl with dark rings beneath her eyes and poorly cropped straw coloured hair. In the same motion that the hood was removed, the girl threw a small object towards Aegon, which he allowed to land at his feet.

“The Lady has sent me!” She declared, breathless, pacing her horse in front of the line of Golden Company knights who had drawn their swords with Duck. “They’re coming from the cliffs!”

Griff stooped to grab the object, a golden locket engraved with the seven-pointed star on one face. Aegon did not need to see what was on the other and neither did Griff. Shouts had erupted around them, the Reach hosts sent theirs at the girl, weapons were readied on all sides though no one made to instigate a fight.

Aegon’s ribs nearly ached as his heart beat against them. Another knowing look passed between him and Griff, the familiar blue eyes softening in understanding for a moment, his twisted scowl falling into a gape of disbelief.

“Lemore,” Aegon whispered, taking the necklace from Griff’s gloved hand. It was Arya, the girl was Arya Stark, wearing yet another face and come from her secondary captivity to warn them.

There was no need to question her escape, or if Lemore had sent her or if she had stolen the necklace and was leading them into a trap. Rowan and the others had retreated behind their mounted knights and had taken to their horses. It was a confirmation of why they had held out, why they had been so determined to lay siege. They had verified the reason for Arya’s words of warning. Aegon’s throat tightened, wondering where his cherished septa might be, praying to the gods he only half believed in that she would slip her way from harm.

Griff drew his sword, Aegon nodded at the blond girl who sprung her horse forward and rounded the Golden Company knights, starting towards the keep.

“Open the gates!” Griff bellowed as he turned to Storm’s End, even though those waiting on the ramparts and base of the massive wall were scarcely visible. He shouted it again. Aegon and the others took to their mounts, the knights gathering around him as they started off, Duck at his side.  

 _Coming from the cliffs_. They’d attack the same way he had, though how they would breach the many barriers below the keep he was unsure. Unless they did exactly as he had, unless they came as cutthroats dressed as sellswords.

In the distance rode Arya Stark, discarding her stolen cloak, her pace setting her a fair length beyond them all. The horns of Storm’s End blared long and low, cutting through the thick damp air around them, calling to the divisions of men hidden to the north and south of the plain. Behind him, higher pitched horns sounded in the morning air, summoning forces to ready themselves for battle.

As Aegon drove his horse forwards, Blackfyre seemed to burn as it bounced at his hip, eager to be yielded once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chap and making it all the way down! Share your thoughts if you wish, its always great to know that people are out there following along, and thank you to anyone who has done so alreadt! I'm hoping to get the next chapter posted within the week, and if I don't it will be another couple of weeks as I'm on vacation without my computer. Sorry...
> 
> The theory of Aegon taking Storm's End via deception with the GC is not my idea, but taken from a few theories I've seen online.
> 
> Next chapter's preview (v short):
> 
> When Gerris Mooton and the others had returned from Maidenpool with a boyish looking girl in tow, Aegon had initially cared very little. When he had been told it was Arya Stark, he had not expected his interest to be piqued in the way that it was.
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, I know this isn't a huge milestone in comparison to other fics, but hitting the 100+ subs mark as a first time long-fic writer was really exciting to me, so thank you for making that possible too. Gods, I'm lame)


	7. Arya VI/Aegon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya does m a n y stairs and Aegon is unnerved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support thus far, I'm sorry for the delay! Vacation, writing a dissertation and applying for jobs do not always align well with writing this story. Neither does rewriting the entire chapter a few times. 
> 
> But here it is, hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Rating is starting to kick in here, you've been warned)

 

_Gather the soldiers, the heir to enfold / Crown him and give him a scepter to hold / Sound every horn as the columns extend / Up to the hill where the king will ascend_

-The Oh Hellos,  _Caesar_

 

Arya

“They may have come in already.”

“We need to check the passages.”

“How many went missing in Maidenpool? How much armour did they get?”

“Difficult to say,” said Strickland, his round face red with puzzlement though he stood on the outside of the fray. “The more they kill the more they’ll have.”

A hundred questions clashed against one another around Raya after she relayed the little information she possessed, many of the voices seeming to bounce around the wall of Storm’s End and back at one another. Those who had been outside of the walls had pooled back through the raised and open gate, other soldiers had joined, Balaq, the Summer Islander had been given command of the wall while the man named Flowers had been given the ground. Everyone had converged with such haste that once she had finished speaking the men had all but forgotten her in the middle of the fray and she had to cower to keep from being hit with an errant fist or blade.

“If they’re already in the holdings you must remain outside.” Connington had rounded on Aegon, his voice commanding and assured enough to reach over the din.

Aegon was speechless for a moment, the prince tried for words to vouch for his own authority. He had drawn his blade, and Raya immediately realized that it was rippling with metallic light. Valyrian steel.

“We wait,” Connington said, addressing the group who had calmed enough for Raya to step to remove herself from the mass of bodies. Strickland came to his side without anything much to say. “They will form up to attack at the gate, they’ll want to prevent our escape in hopes we’ll be slaughtered in here. We will hit them from the flanks and the head before they reach the walls. Others will pick through the keep, clean up whatever rats have made it in.”

It was not lost on Raya or the others that the Griffin was aiming to keep Aegon from harm’s way, that he saw this mess not as an opportunity for the prince to prove his valour and his leadership but as something better handled by a seasoned commander.

There was yelling above them from the distant heights of the wall-walk, the men strained to listen. And then there was a low rumble of thunder.

Not thunder. An army.

 “They’re riding,” Balaq turned to Strickland, his eyes wide. “They could not be so fast.”

 “The tower should have spotted them if they’d been arranging on the plain,” Aegon said, his pale brows contracting together as he peered upwards.

Raya thought perhaps those watching from the very top might have their vision obscured by fog, but the damp was not hanging low now and if she strained her neck enough she could see the peak of the rookery.

“They’re in the tower,” she whispered to herself. It felt that she was staring into a fogged window and had at last swiped the layer of moisture from it for better clarity.

“They’re in the tower!” She called to the men, somehow still breathless from her ride. Strickland had begun exchanging singular words with his men exchanging singular words, commands of sort of, some dashing off and relaying the calls. Raya turned to Aegon, Connington, and Duck who had not yet moved. "Half the camp was empty, I thought it might be those setting out to come from below but they must have formed up for their assault in the night. You’re right, the tower should have seen it and if they haven’t…”

Recognition flashed across each of the men's faces despite her words crashing over each other. Aegon was somehow growing paler than he already was, Duck rolling his shoulders in preparation, Connington seething and cursing through his teeth.

“Arianne –” Aegon started, taking a step towards the tower whose thick walls betrayed no trace of any clashes within. 

“Does she know how to fight?” Raya asked Aegon who shook his head.

Horns sounded from the wall, the thunder growing louder, the prince looked back at the gates completely overwhelmed, his dark eyes betraying a flash of fear and uncertainty.

Nearby several men had found their mounts, Strickland among them. A fervor of foreboding and fretfulness was settling around them. No matter the order and the training of the famed Golden Company, no one had prepared to be attacked from within and without. They had to pick one front on which to channel their efforts, and they would have to hope those taking the other would manage with only discipline and intuition to guide them.

“We meet them on the field, Aegon, just as their flanks are hit. They’ll be assembling to assault the gates and they must be stopped,” Connington said firmly once again. “Let others hunt the rats.”

His icy eyes flashed to Raya then and they were not harsh, not simmering with disapproval, but instead instructed her to go into the keep.

“I need a blade,” Raya said, eyes darting about for a weapon, though none of those around were suitable for her size. She needed Needle, but there wouldn’t be time, the inner keep could be entirely overrun from within by men who appeared to be friends, she’d never know where to go, and would likely never get there if she did.

“Take this,” Duck pulled a dagger from his belt, passed it grip first to Raya. She might’ve asked if he should keep, but she needed it more. He had a sword, perhaps other concealed weapons. She gripped it in her hand and then spotted knights mounting their horses with lances in tow…

Duck caught her gaze and understanding her combat style better than the others went to a scampering squire carrying a load of lances. He made the boy hold one out at length, and then took it and snapped it over his plated thigh, startling the boy so that the weapons spilled from his arms.

“She’s my cousin, I have to go…” Aegon said, his conflict unresolved, and as he took another step to the keep, Connington caught the prince’s upper arm and wrenched him back in place. The Griffin met Raya’s gaze one more, it had thawed entirely now as he sent her a silent plea.

The crafty Kingsguard returned and passed the makeshift quarterstaff into her hand as a horn blared once more and shouts were rising around the perimeter of the keep.

Raya stepped to her right to catch Aegon's concerned eyes. “I’ll find her,” she swore, doing her best to hold his shifting gaze, unsure of why she felt such an obligation, but understanding it was necessary to force the prince to place himself away from the more chaotic of skirmishes.

“Half of you work up the tower, the other half towards lower passages and other buildings. Question everything,” Connington told her and the other soldiers who had remained, and then his tone turned frosty with a sparking anger. “If they are not our own, give no quarter.”

There may have been forty men making for the drum tower, Raya noted others had already started on their way into the other buildings, a coded and barked command that she had missed from Connington or Strickland. Efficient, even in disorder. Perhaps it helped that they had wrought such violence on the keep themselves weeks ago.

“Your cousin,” she caught Griff once more with her eyes before turning away. Aegon had finally moved back to his mount, a squire appearing to strap pieces of armour onto the prince. “They’ll try something –”

Connington stepped close to her so that she smelled his sweat, and saw that his skin was covered in tight freckles rather than evenly tanned by the sun. “Do not concern yourself with my cousin, girl. Get the princess.”

He was handed a helm then and snapped it over his head before turning away from her with somewhat of a snarl, though she expected it was because the thundering of hooves slowing as the Tyrells settled into their lines. From the frustrated calls above on the walls, it seemed the Reach forces remained out of range, waiting perhaps to see their own men on the walls.  

***

It was during the second round of her game that the exhaustion washed over Raya. She’d taken the servants stairs, narrow and difficult to move on for a lumbering man, simple for a small and nimble girl, and she sent the first man tumbling down after he failed to answer her simple question, only blinking in response.

“Green or gold?”

Comprehension of her questioning hardly mattered, she only needed a pause, a half blink, a twitch of the lips to know if they belonged within Storm’s End or not.

The next she found on a landing, the floor already slick with blood, a dead servant curled against a door.

“Green or gold?” She asked.

“Gold.” The man snarled, impatient. It was a lie and so he had lost the game, though he’d have lost with the truth as well. She had a brief moment of realization, that she had not used the game in Storm’s End before today. There had not been a need. Information had been kept from her yet no one had lied.

This man did not expect a sickly girl to spear him, but Raya did just that. It helped that they wore only use the Golden Company’s leather armour and bits of mail, light enough for them to move well and somewhat in quiet. The lancehead entered from under his ribcage, not enough to kill a man immediately, but the twist of her wrist left and then right, and a kick at his weakening knees ensured he'd bleed out with time. 

She began mounting the next steps, but her legs were beginning to ache, her lungs burning though she’d hardly gone up as far as she needed. Above and below were shouts of pain and confusion, she could hear doors being flung open and slammed shut on multiple landings, harbingers of salvation or death depending on who wore the gold. Maybe the exhaustion was from her lack of sleep, food, water. She wasn’t getting any soon, especially if she died, so she pressed onwards.

Some levels she ignored, even if there were noises beyond the doors. She was meant to get to Arianne, and reasons neither Arya or Raya could explain, she became utterly single-minded in that task.

“Gold!” One man responded truthfully after he’d rounded the corner of a narrow hallway. His immediate reaction to seeing Raya was not to skewer her, it would have been easy enough, and she was of the mind to do it to him for such incompetence. She was not dressed as any of them, but she could be an enemy nonetheless. He continued into a room, apparently unconcerned by her presence.

At some point, she became unsure of how high she'd gone, how many men she’d offed, how far it was until she reached the Dornish quarters. She wondered if the princess’s guard would be wise enough to distrust whoever might have barged within, for surely someone would have reached them already, friend or foe. The thought brought her to pause, or maybe her burning and somewhat numb legs did. Her arms were weary, her neck was stiff and hands clammy as though she'd be fighting through a fog. 

Someone came up the stairs as she struggled with her breathing, lungs seeming to only half fill.

“Green or gold!” She wheezed before they could see her, hoping that she’d had a small moment to give them pause and tighten her unwillingly loosening grips on her dagger and staff.

“What the fuck?”

It was a Golden Company man, and one of her guards, though his helm had been removed and his bloodied, shaggy hair plastered to his skin. He eyed her for a moment with dark inquisitorial eyes.

"You're Raya?" He asked for confirmation, somewhat lowering the greatsword he held with two hands. It unnerved her for self-preservative reasons that he carried such a weapon here, a dagger would be of more use in such tight spaces. Though, to his credit, there was fresh blood coating the length of the massive blade. "You look ill."

“Are you Mooton or Loi?” She asked, still breathless, feeling that she was in fact ill.

“Mooton,” the man said. “How many have you taken?”

“Four I think,” Raya said.

“There’s more. Best be on your feet.”

She was on her feet, but barely, even they prickled with the uninvited fatigue that was smothering her. Mooton carried on upwards.

 _You look ill_ , she heard his observation again. She wasn’t ill. Not Arya.

 _There’s a reason this damned face was easy to take._ _Some shouldn’t be worn._

And so Raya cut her forehead, tender after so many small wounds, and peeled the skin off once more. As much as Arya Stark didn’t want the face, she knew she couldn’t leave it lying about and incite further panic amongst those who might come across it, and so she slid the bloody piece into the layers of her leathers with fresh fingers. All the drain lingering in her muscles like unwanted damp slowly evaporated away, her neck loosened, her head cleared, sounds sharpened. She could smell the iron wafting around the spiral stairs air, and the piss and shit from dead or dying men as well.

Perhaps the face could only be worn for a short time, a short time with little required movement. Why the kindly man or anyone might have wanted the face in the House of Black and White, she was unsure.

More steps, rising up the heights did not tire her now and Arya wondered how she had not questioned it earlier. She’d felt the lethargy in the camp, during her ride to the pavilion, back into the keep. Arya Stark had the stamina for a fight, she would not tire until days after.

Her feet found a familiar landing, one that the cat had found when Arya had first seen Arianne. The feasting hall lay beyond the singular closed door, and there was no noise within, so she continued up. The levels containing chambers were nestled between the rookery and the Round Hall, but the sounds of battle had quietened above, though such a lack of sound was not necessarily welcome.

“Please,” a voice came as Arya did her best to quieten up bloodied steps. It pleading, and not directed at her, it was unlikely they’d heard her careful steps beyond such whimpers. They were pleas given to the air, pleas of someone who believed something existed in the dust that stirred in the air, something that could soothe an ailment or answer a prayer. 

It was a Dornish girl, one of Arianne’s companions though not her cousin. She wore a fine gown, though the red hues darkened around the girl’s belly where blood had spilled out along with other bits that were better to remain in. For someone literally holding their own death, she was rather calm, perhaps past the point of feeling. Arya’s feet took her up the last steps, her staff out to feel for any assailants, though she doubted there’d be any.

“Where is the princess?” Arya asked, kneeling to the girl’s side after a moment. There was blood coming from her nose and mouth, perhaps wounds elsewhere. The girl looked up at Arya with deep blue eyes like the depths of a river but glazed with the inevitability of death.

“Who are you?” The girl had enough left in her to question the reveal of such information.

“Arya Stark,” Arya said, her voice even, she held the girl’s fading gaze. “I’m with Prince Aegon, I’m helping him against the Lannisters. He sent me to protect Arianne.”

“A Stark?” The girl’s face twisted in confusion, and Arya regretted telling her anything, worried the effort of thinking might sap the last bit of colour from her increasingly greying skin. It seemed however that something in Arya’s tone or perhaps scrawled on her face convinced the girl. “They think Prince turned. They went down... down to escape.”

“He hasn’t,” Arya assured the girl, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder as she slowly drew her dagger with her left hand. “He was worried for you all. The Tyrells have done this.”

Arya didn’t know if it was the truth, she doubted Aegon even remembered this girl’s name let alone worried for her. But she understood the need for comfort the dying had, and knew that this girl had merely followed her friend on an adventure, never expecting to be murdered in a servant’s stairwell, all but forgotten. So Arya stuck the dagger in, just in the right place that she’d learned where the heart was.

She realized after she should have asked the girl’s name.

Inside of the chambers beyond the door there were noticeable signs of a scuffle, rugs bunched up and vases and vessels shattered, chairs toppled and each door to the rooms beyond were flung open. Arya didn’t know who these quarters belonged to until she came to Daemon Sand in his bronzed armour, collapsed on the floor just ahead of the landing to the main stairwell. After watching for a moment Arya saw his chest rise and fall, and assumed he'd merely been knocked unconscious for convenience's sake. 

Arya followed the words of the dying girl and went to begin her descent, though found herself more cautious on the larger stairs, which rather than spiraling switched back and forth up the height of the tower. It was much more open, more than Arya liked. She was quick, but longswords could reach here at a distance she could not even with her half-broken lance. The bannister of the stairs was intricately carved wood with corner posts of stag’s heads. At points, the dark wood shone not with its varnish but with sticky fresh blood.

At a lower level, there were small shuffles behind a half-shut door, and it rang loudly through Arya's head as she realized there had been little noise of recent save her own words playing her mind, looping over one another to remind her to step with care, to breathe with care. The silence had been so conspicuous Arya feared for an anxious moment that the shifting of her eyes might emit a sort of creaking noise. 

With her right shoulder, she managed to nudge the door open enough to slip between its edge and the stone wall. It was the map room, the same she had been in only two days ago though it seemed an eternity since then. Torches lit the room as there were no windows, everything was in place as it had been though the markers of separate forces had been cleared from the canvas map and it lay bare across the broad table.

Another door sat beyond the table, shut, though barely, likely the source of the whispered shuffling Arya had heard. She tapped it open with the lance, knowing if someone struck they’d only slice at wood and not her wrist.

“Don’t move.”

Arya froze. She recognized the voice as the princess’s.

"I'm here to help," Arya attempted to convince Arianne, though she couldn't see the woman’s face from where she stood, slightly around the corner of the threshold, back against the wall. She knew the words would have little effect.

“Like hells you are. That’s what the others have said.”

“Did you kill them?” Arya asked.

“One," Arianne said, her voice uneven though more with exhaustion than terror. There was no other sound, only some slight shifting from Arianne's feet. No one else was with her.

Arya turned suddenly to open the door wider, knowing there was no need to fear another attacker and that she could easily dodge any unskilled attack Arianne made.

The Dornish Princess held a short sword at arm’s length, her black locks of hair were a bit wild though she appeared otherwise unharmed and rather composed. Eyes were wide, scanning Arya’s face in attempts to recognize it, and like Mooton, there seemed to be something that Arianne saw to make her trust Arya long enough not to react further.

“It’s the Reach forces dressed as Aegon’s men, come up from below,” Arya began explaining, knowing she couldn’t hope to get the princess out without offering further context to the chaos.

“Like Aegon when he took this place,” Arianne nodded after a pause, recognition clear in her eyes. “You’re that girl. But you look different.”

“Raya,” Arya nodded. “Connington asked me to find you. The yard is safest, the keep is crawling otherwise.”

Mention of the Griffin might compel Arianne more than using Aegon’s name, it seemed more believable though even at that it seemed unlikely a bastard from Rain House would be sent to help the heir of Dorne. Arya also didn’t know the state of the keep, or the yard, but sneaking around with someone less skilled than she would be difficult. If she managed to get Arianne outside, she could come back in and finish whatever might be left. In fact, she found she was craving further scuffles.   

“Where are the others?” Arya was mostly interested in the cousin, Elia, the one who would be most helpful in such a situation

Arianne deflated at Arya’s question, she wiped back awry strands of hair from her forehead. “All over. We went down, had to turn around. I thought Elia was behind me when I came up…” There was an ounce of panic as she spoke her cousin’s name.

“Keep that in hand,” Arya nodded to the short sword. It was unlikely it’d be carried by a Westerosi man and she assumed Arianne had taken it from an actual Golden Company man, though whether he met his end at the hands of the Dornish or the Tyrells Arya could not say. It became evident that the infiltrating force accomplished at least part of what they intended to. It would be impossible to know how many of Aegon’s men died at the hands of their brothers at arms, but Arya predicted it might grow to a significant number.

Their new focus would be to avoid any sort of conflict, Arya could think only of Arianne being a liability, and to avoid her own death due to another’s incompetence or panic, Arya took them back to the main stairs. Should something arise, there would be space for movement, for Arianne to run, for Arya to step around her if need be.

Down, down, down.

Arianne’s small size helped her move somewhat noiselessly, and when sounds came again they were not due to the princess’s more encumbered movement. They went behind another door and found that it led to a dimly lit corridor. Outside there was window beating against the stones, and it rushed around the ceiling and solid flooring to announce that Arya and Arianne were crossing some sort of walkway. That corridor opened into another, and they realized in the same moment that they’d led themselves into a new and unfamiliar building, though Arya had found that most places in the keep were as dull and briny as the next.

Here, the nearest torch had fallen to the floor and was near to being extinguished, though Arianne picked it up and blew on the bound rag at its end so that it emitted a spot more of low orange light. The hallway was wide and lead to rooms flanking the stretch as the two eased through further grey territory.

Arya reacted before Arianne did, though she expected nothing less. The man came from the darkness, she hadn’t a chance to question him or even catch his eyes to see what they might betray, so she struck him at thigh level, straight on to avoid cutting something vital. That could come after.

He stopped in his run from the dark and gasped when Arya pulled the staff back to release a small squirt of blood.

“Who are you with?” Arianne stepped to stand at Arya’s side, a few hairbreadths taller. Her eyes had narrowed, her voice even as she held the sword out. The sight might be intimidating had she been holding the grip properly.

“Didn’t realize the boy was hiding two treats from us,” he leered from his knees, looking up with teeth that shone and showed faint touched of yellow rot. Truth in his watery eyes betrayed a flicker of carnal hunger, as did the rumble of his voice.

“He’s Aegon’s.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just can,” Arya said, but she flipped the staff and smashed the butt-end of it into the man’s head so that he fell sideways with a heavy flop, half perched against the wall as though he’d fallen asleep. “Better he doesn’t remember us.”

The next corner came faster and in the same moment the torch began to fade. Its light was replaced with a yellow glow from a far off and high placed window, salt-stained, the shadows it cast on the ground spattered with irregular markings. Its light stretched far from its placement on the wall, leaving a stretch of blackness down the corridor just below the window itself. Arya spent a moment too long acknowledging the placement of the light, and her mistake was confirmed when the smallest creak of tension touched at her ears.

Arianne yelped a moment later, but first Arya saw a muted glint from the beaten plate streaking down the central frame of a crossbow, held by a man obscured in the shadow. The bolt released, and in the fraction of a blink, before it reached her from no more than eight paces away, Arya shifted to her right, Arianne having the sense to remain where she stood.

It stuck from Arya’s left shoulder, hugged in a rigid embrace under the curve of her collarbone, buried in the fleshy and tender bit between bones. And few fingers width from Arya’s lung, and a hand from her heart. The impact had been enough to make her stumble, and as her second step grounded her the pain blazed, the staff clamoring from her hand, the muscles in her left arm jolted in a short-lived spasm like a blade of springy grass pulled tautly and then broken.

“So many bitches in this damned castle,” the man grumbled to himself as he made to reload the bow, reaching for a bolt at his side, evidently not wishing to get his hands bloodied fighting said, bitches. “Best run away while I finish her off!”

Arya felt at the knife looped in her belt, given to her by Duck in the yard and blooded by some unfortunate souls in the drum tower. Arianne hadn’t moved, evidently fearful that the next shot might be aimed at her, though Arya thought even she should know the bow would need to be pulled wrought with tension again. It didn't matter, there was a fire in Arya's shoulder, a knife in her weaker hand, and enough shock rippling through her body to pulse energy into her torso. She turned despite the protests across the muscles and tendons in her neck and across her chest and whipped the knife with all of her remaining strength just as the man slipped the bolt into place.

“Dumb cunt,” Arya breathed, as it buried into his chest, slicing through his padded leather armour as if it were thin as silk.

As the bow fell, as Arya’s knees wobbled with tremors for the distress coursing through her, Arianne moved. The princess was at the collapsing man just as he reached the ground, and she forced the sword into his bulging gut. And as Arianne rose, the shadows moved once more and she slashed the short sword, blood spattering from a new adversary onto the floor and across the princess herself.

There was a cry of pain at the same moment another orange glow rounded an unseen corner, paired with the sound of metal through flesh and fat and bone. Arianne dodged from the silver point of a sword that emerged through a new man’s neck, metallic beneath a coating of thick blood.

“Gods, princess!”

The impaled body slid off the sword, Arianne pressed against the wall her chest heaving. Arya found that she was half leaning into the wall and that the bolt was sending out radiating agony and a sickening sense of loosening around her left side that gave her the sensation that her arm was untethered and might slip to the ground independent from her body. 

Mooton, again, emerged into the yellow light, stepping over the dying men, wiping the tip of his blade on their clothes as he passed. He saw Arya, shook his head realizing that she had yet again changed faces, and then turned to Arianne.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Arianne shook her head. “Who are you?”

“He’s…” Arya tried to say, but her throat had coated itself with some sort of panicked phlegm and her voice came out hoarse.

“Gerris Mooton,” he introduced himself to Arianne with a slight bow. His dark, wet hair hung around his face before he pushed it back with a hand, as though it made him more presentable in her presence.

“Mooton? Of Maidenpool?”

Arya had slunk entirely to the floor now, though felt a sort of prickling shame in her chest at being so undone by a simple shot. Her right hand went to the wound, she could look at it without a hint of nausea, but the slight shift of the muscles in her chest felt that they were being plucked like harp strings and she was near to vomiting. The desire to retch, her unconscious body movement in the form of a curling reaction only amplified the unspeakable discomfort.

 _I won’t die. It’s not hit anywhere important_. If she didn’t consider her left arm important. 

Arianne and Mooton seemed to have had a conversation, they were approaching Arya now, Arianne dusting off her skirts as though she'd merely be inconvenienced by some dirt and was not splattered with hot blood. For a moment Arya recalled that Arianne had the blood of Nymeria in her, and she wondered if the hero of her childhood had looked as such after a battle. The woman never went into the thick of a battle, but she could be found on the field commanding her forces. Surely she'd show traces of bloodshed just as her descendant did now. 

Mooton crouched before Arya, and not quite touching the bolt examined the wound.

“You’ll be alright.”

“I know,” she breathed through her teeth, annoyed with the man though he’d just prevented them from being another corpse in the hallway. “Just hurts like all seven fucking hells.”

Arianne had plucked Duck’s knife from the man’s chest and delivered it back to Arya.

"You look entirely different than you did in the map room the other day," she frowned as she spoke, a knot between her brows that half reminded Arya of Aegon's own looks of consternation. Cousins. Arianne looked to Mooton, recalling him having escorted Arya to that meeting. “You see it as well?”

Mooton had gone to the bodies to riffle through them. Arya found that focusing on their words and actions took away from the sickening pulls and prods and tearing sensations across half her body, the roiling in her gut.

“For her to explain,” the man said.

“Later,” Arya breathed, letting her cheek fall against the cool of the wall. She wanted to stand, to keep fighting, to find more imposters about the keep and end them the same as the others. But she couldn’t.

“Where can we go?” Arianne asked Mooton as he armed her with her stolen sword once more.

“We’ll stay put. She’s going to be sick and they’re nearly finished up outside, and I reckon we’re nearly done in here.”

“Nearly done?” Arianne asked, a thousand questions on her lips, Arya realized that she hadn’t a clue as what had transpired, not knowing that Aegon and the Golden Company were in the field.

“Yes,” Mooton said. He stood to Arya’s left, standing square as he had outside of the doors of her chambers. She too had a hundred questions, many pertaining to the man himself, but couldn’t ask a thing and had to shut her eyes against the perpetual ebbing and retreating of the pain. Each pulse continued to punch her stomach, and even unmoving she though Mooton was right, she was going to be ill, but held it back, knowing any sort of shudder would make her vision flash with white-hot fissures of pain she’d not yet experienced.

“Yes? That is all you have to say?”

“Rowan turned,” he said, still facing down the hallway from which Arianne and Arya had come. “That’s what word from outside says. Poor bastard’s likely sick of being outside these walls figured he'd make a deal to get in."

 _Rowan turned_? Arya wanted to ask. But the attack, this attack that had felled Arya and Arianne's friend, and her knight had been Rowan's plan.

“The others?”

“If all of our forces hit at the right moment, could be nothing more than minced meat and dust. Retreated is more likely,” Mooton said, his tone flat and warning the princess not to ask further questions, implying he had no concrete answers.

Arya focused on the cold against her face, of the air flowing in and out of her lungs unimpeded, of the blood pulsing in and out of her heart. She was alive, she knew she could have died had she not turned that small bit upon seeing the crossbow. She would have died if she had continued to wear the face, the sickly girl couldn’t possibly have reacted in time. 

When faced with death in the past Arya had been instinctively fearful, but wondered if at some point she might welcome it. Today, she did not. As her thoughts melted into indiscernible waves of battering pain she found that she was grateful for the blood and breath in her still. There was much to do.

***

Aegon

It was the longest day of his life, and wearily, shaking his head as he sat on the steps leading to the dais in the Round Hall, Aegon accepted that there would have to be more stretching on for impossible lengths if he wished to take the throne.

“You did well,” Griff sat next to him, pulling apart a chunk of bread with his gloves still on, neither of them having done so much as clean the blood and grit from their hands. At least they’d had a chance to remove the heavy plates of armour necessary for their mounted charge, though Blackfyre remained coated in the mess of its inaugural fight in the scabbard at its new wielder’s hip. “Mistakes we were made, but you did well.”

Aegon knew the mistakes. His hesitancy at the outset, his sudden urge to enter the tower and find Arianne after Arya Stark’s sudden return and proclamation of impending doom. However, the panic had come not for reasons many might suspect. As much as he’d come to care for his cousin, there was a factor of self-preservation he could not deny. Arianne Martell could not die under his watch. Dorne would never support him, and though they’d gained an ally today, they required the backing of an entire kingdom, not a lord alone. Arianne played the same game as he, so there was little guilt in that reasoning. Instead, there was shame in knowing he would have done well to either race inside to protect her _immediately_ , or to have followed Griff without question. Men had seen his uncertainty, his moment of weakness, and if they had failed today he knew they would not so easily forget it.

They _had_ failed in a sense. What might have been a bloodless victory had seen them thwarted, and in a manner most ironic. Sixteen of the household killed. Fourteen of their men dead in the keep, some likely killed mistakenly by their own brothers. Arianne's friend, Jayne Ladybright had been finished by someone merciful, though it had not felt a consolation all things considered. In the field their charge of fifty from the gates, timed with the striking from the flanks by thousands of the Golden Company, had made the Reach forces buckle inwards, though not without taking thirty-three of Aegon’s men in a manner of minutes. Others including Duck, wounded and severely at that, though Haldon had assured Aegon his Kingsguard would recover with rest.

Sixty-four dead. He didn’t know the number of enemies killed, higher surely. It was a difficult victory to accept. Arya Stark had said that Lord Rowan knew the way into the keep, and yet he had been the man to keeping his forces from the fray and to stake his sword in the ground and kneel to Aegon. The first Westerosi lord to proclaim Aegon King on Westerosi soil.

“I need to rest, but I want Rowan brought here before sunrise,” Aegon turned to Griff. It was only the two of them in the massive hall, and though he urged decisiveness into his voice it still seemed meek echoing around them. “I cannot trust him yet.”

“A wise decision,” Griff agreed, his eyes seeming to sparkle with admiration as a slight grin settled on his lips. “I expect you only have a few hours. Flowers is here still; I’ll send him as your guard.”

Aegon wanted to object, he wanted to feel he could traverse his keep freely, the supervision made him feel more a child than a man of import. Much of it came from the fatherly manner in which Griff made the arrangement, without room for Aegon to question it, and out of genuine care for Aegon’s protection. There was little point in doing anything but allowing it.

At his doors stood Gerris Mooton, somewhat cleaned up from when Aegon had seen him just after the chaos and solemn-faced as ever. Aegon approached with wordless confusion until the man spoke.

“She’s still in there, Your Highness. With Lady Lemore," he nudged his thick bearded chin at the doors that would lead to Aegon's antechamber.

“Oh gods,” Aegon rubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. “I forgot. Go to bed, Mooton. Flowers is coming.”

The man paused before moving, narrowing his eyes for a moment and then stepping away. He’d fulfilled his duties in more ways than Aegon ever anticipated. The man had been the one to identify Arya Stark in Maidenpool, he’d been the one charged with her watch on account of his decision to bring her in. Aegon had ordered Loi to join, a former assassin in his own right, more of a precautionary measure when Aegon had not yet known the girl’s temperament. And it seemed Mooton had tracked her through the chaos and was the one who had kept her and Arianne relatively safe and away from curious eyes.

The gods worked in strange ways, Aegon had quickly been learning. Never would he have expected this forgotten cousin of Myles Mooton, his father’s own squire, to serve him so closely, to be a key force in the tides of change these last weeks. When he and the others had returned from Maidenpool with a boyish-looking girl in tow, Aegon had initially cared very little. 

When he had been told it was Arya Stark, he had not expected his interest to be piqued in the way that it was. And today, when he had seen that Arya Stark had a bolt through her, wearing her apparent Stark looks, he had not expected to offer up his own chambers until she could be tended to by Haldon.

Still waxen in shade, Arya Stark was a tiny in figure curled up on a low seat placed in the closest right corner of the small room leading to his quarters. Earlier, she had been fully clothed but was now clad some sort of too-large tunic on, and her left arm hung in a sling atop it. Next to her, on the ground was a leather jacket, somewhat carefully cut pieces, and a fleshy face without eyes. The face she’d been wearing upon this morning’s arrival.

That face was partially the reason Aegon insisted she be taken to his private rooms. There were too many secrets around the girl for just anyone to treat her, or even see her about the keep. And if she had died… there mightn’t be the same issues as there would be with Arianne, but he did not expect many to take it lightly if word came out that the elusive Arya Stark had perished at Storm’s End. Her evident distress at being pierced through the shoulder also made it very clear it would be much too painful to send her off to her chambers in an entirely separate building.

Lemore sat near the girl in a plush armchair, clothed in fresh robes with her hood off, hair brushed and tied back neatly. There wasn’t a trace of struggle on the woman, and though she, Peake, and some forty new Reach recruits had ridden into Storm’s End midway through the evening, she’d not revealed how they had made their escape. It hardly mattered, the most relief he had felt the entire day came upon seeing her unharmed.   

Wordlessly, Aegon placed himself in one of a few seats around a low round table to the left. The antechamber was mostly a narrow seating area, meant as a place for courtiers to wait for their Lord if they’d been summoned to his private quarters. It was uncomfortable in an unexpected manner, perhaps to put said courtiers at unease before reaching the lavishly decorated rooms beyond. Lavish for a stone fortress on a tempest battered cliff.

He kicked off his boots, mud flying about to which Lemore gave him a warning glower as a mother might.

“I could kiss you right now,” he said with a laugh, utter relief warming him over again in her presence.

“On the cheek, I would hope,” she smiled.

“Of course.”

Silence passed between them as did a hundred unspoken words of release and thanks and worry at the very same time. Lemore was more real to him as a mother than Elia Martell had been, and while the thought often made him melancholy or prickle with a need for vengeance, today he was nothing less than grateful.

“How’d they get it out?” He asked, referring to Arya who remained unmoving, her eyes shut, breathing slow.

“Wasn’t pretty,” Lemore grimaced with a half frown, glancing back at the girl.

“Barbed tips never are,” said Aegon, trying not to envision the digging Haldon would have to do on the girl.

"Had to push it through further, the head was barely out the other end. Through the bone," Lemore said, her voice quietening. "Then he cut either end off and pulled the shaft out the back. There was a dusty vase here, dried up flowers and the like. Hope you hadn't grown fond of it."

His puzzled expression encouraged the septa to explain. Honestly, he hadn’t noticed much about the room since living in the keep except how cramped it felt.

“Shocking how much she heaved up, considering how little we ate or drank in the camp. I think she needs a bit of fresh air and a proper rest, but she insists on walking back to her chambers, won’t let anyone carry her though I expect she weighs less than a hound.”

“She can sleep here if you’re remaining,” he sighed, thinking that the journey to his own bed, however short it may be, was rather daunting.

There was a grumble from the form on the seat, hardly audible for her face pressed into a pillow propped against the wall. “Not asleep.”

“You’re the reason we still hold a keep to sleep in at all,” Aegon allowed himself to laugh with a bit of disbelief. It was true, he had just never expected to attribute his second victory to her. "As prince, I say it's permitted for you to remain here."

“Why prince?”

Lemore joined Aegon in looking at the girl in bewilderment, though Arya did not open her eyes.

“Why not king?” she murmured, and Aegon realized it was possible she’d been given a draught to numb her pain, possibly to help her sleep, though it seemed to do nothing to dull her sharp tongue.

He wanted to roll his eyes. Tyrell, Rowan and the Knight of Cider Hall had asked him the exact question in their talks only yesterday.

_Gods be good. That was only yesterday._

“I _am_ King. The only rightful King,” he said, careful of his words as he was with the Reachmen. “But the last time men went around declaring themselves as such without a crown or the Iron Throne, this realm bled, and it continues to for it. It seems a bad omen to declare myself anything beyond prince until I’ve taken King’s Landing, or at least been given the title. Merely claiming it has not boded well for others.”

It was somewhat true. He wanted the Golden Company to refer to him as King if only to grow used to the word, but he found it had little meaning, especially when they held only Griffin's Roost. It was decided that he'd prove himself as the rightful ruler, earn the title if only to garner respect and perhaps inspire a touch of awe as he progressed. As it was with Arianne, a significant portion of this business came to little more than optics, and he had been fully aware of that since he was young. That lesson began the first time he’d dyed his hair blue and proclaimed his mother to be of Tyrosh.

Arya was quiet, and a moment later he recalled that her brother had been one of those kings, though his crown and throne were meant to be of Winter.

“I saw your path,” he said, hoping to appease her incase his words had brought any offence. “I could tell which kills were yours. You are much more careful, cleaner than others.”

“I’d be dead if I were not,” she muttered, unmoved by his attempted flattery. Her eyes opened then, and she turned her head slightly, wincing audibly as she looked to him. “I put Arianne’s girl out of her misery.”

It had been clear when he found Arianne that his cousin did not know who Arya was except that she was the same girl as Raya, and that Raya was not at all a bastard of Rain House. Arianne had been thankful to Arya for helping her as the infiltration ended, and he expected she might be thankful to know the same girl had ensured her friend had not suffered further.

“I’m grateful the man had poor aim,” Aegon said.

“He didn’t,” Arya said, her voice continuing in its blunt way, her eyes red with exhaustion held Aegon’s for a beat. “His aim was true. I turned just enough.”

The room rang silent again, this one more uneasy than the previous. Aegon found himself attempting to envision what had happened, what it would be like to see a bolt aimed at your heart hurtling through the air. There was little doubt in his mind that he’d not have been able to avoid death as easily as she had.

Arya shuffled against the pillows, and a string of imaginative vulgarities left her mouth as she seized up in anguish at the movement. Whatever Haldon had given her clearly had not been strong enough.

Lemore’s soft face tensed with the girl’s, and it was clear to Aegon that she’d come to care for the girl in their short time together. She had a soft spot for orphaned children, that Aegon knew well. “I’m not an authority here, but I think it best we remain, my dear. You’ll only aggravate it more if you move now, and I know how badly you wish for it to heal and get on with your intended aims. I’d enjoy hearing a Frey squeal more than any septa should, but you won’t be able to get any of them to –”

“I don’t want them to squeal,” Arya said, closing her eyes again, settling into the pillows once more. She released a sort of contented sigh that a child might when cozying beneath the covers of their bed. “I want them silent to better hear me, so they know who came for them. And I want them to see me.”

“You can’t mean to kill them all,” Aegon said. Admittedly, he was a touch unnerved by her tone, the seeming relaxation the promise of dead Freys brought the girl. It seemed the moment her murderous capabilities slipped his mind, they returned with a blatant snarl.

“I can kill enough,” she said, voice trailing off somewhat, softening with a dreamlike quality. “Enough so you’ll sweep through the Riverlands wondering where all the vermin are. Enough to make the Green Fork run so red you’ll think you’ve found rubies at the Trident. And when you reach the Twins you’ll find kinslayers at either castle, and a new crossing stacked high with bodies in between.”

 _Rubies at the trident._ Aegon found himself unable to breathe for a moment, her words seizing the very tissue of his heart.

“I do not intend to be as clean as I was here.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts :)
> 
> Yes, Gerris Mooton is an original character, because its freeing to create someone in this world who has fewer constraints to their name. Don't worry if you're confused, we'll learn more about him of course. 
> 
> I'm completely unsure when I'll update again, hopefully in the next few weeks, but I have 493454 deadlines for real life stuff so we shall see. In the meantime, here is a juicy (and most revealing) preview for the next chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Preview:
> 
> "The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch is dead, a new one is to be elected shortly," Haldon read from the scroll.
> 
> Arya's heart shuddered to a frozen stop.
> 
> "Fucking mess that is," Flower grumbled. "Whole north's in shambles, will be ripe for the taking."
> 
> Lord Commander. Dead.
> 
> **Edit: Preview now applies to Chapter 9


	8. Aegon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aegon thinks about hinges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW
> 
> Sorry for the wait and thank you beyond words for coming back if you're here. Life's been wild, but more on that later. Here is the excessively long chapter, with a treat at the end.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> (P.S. Last chapter's preview does not feature here... ooops!)

_So I’m sitting here thinking about you / And I feel like a sinner / Cause I love what I have but I want it all_

\- Merival, Sinner

 

 

“There will be a number of reasons they believe I’ve turned.”

Mathis Rowan was on his knees in semi-supplication before Aegon. He wasn’t a prisoner, though he had been locked in a room for the evening, a practice the prince was coming to realize was common when he and his council were wary of new guests. The Lord of Goldengrove wore his golden tree on his surcoat, the same that had been unsullied from the previous day’s battle, his greying hair cropped close and an angular trimmed beard lining his jaw. His eyes were sharp, a deep shade of some colour not entirely clear in the dusky orange light streaming through the high windows.

“I’m not interested in a number of reasons. I am interested in yours alone,” Aegon said, sitting in the high chair on the dais. Haldon and Strickland sat to his left, Connington to his right, and Franklyn Flowers standing guard behind Aegon in his regular wear of padded leather and golden arm bands. 

“I could never support the Lannisters full heartedly. I pledged to Renly at the outbreak of this war, but I was loyal to Targaryens throughout the Rebellion. I’ve done as others have in order to survive.”

“You’ve done more than survive,” Aegon bristled, though the action made his body ache somewhat. His sleep had been short and he woke feeling that his body had been trampled by his own hundreds of riders. The night had hardly been restful, the din of the clashing forces ringing in his ears when he had closed his eyes, and it seemed to continue now. He had raised his voice above the noise he knew was in his head alone, Rowan had met it, and he guessed that anyone outside of the hall might be questioning why they were shouting so. “You’re held in high regard across the realm, you’ve thrived.”

He knew well of the Lords of Westeros before his landing, and since his arrival Lysono had ensured all word available met his ears. Rowan had been largely considered for Hand of the King, or so many thought, but had surreptitiously been removed from the Small Council all together. For such a popular man to turn coat – if he proved useful anyone with a set of ears and a brain between them might reconsider their allegiances. Should he play them as Aegon feared, the results would ripple across the realm and even those without a brain or ears would know of it, to Aegon’s discredit.

“Not one man should have stood by and accepted what Tywin Lannister’s men had done to your mother and sister. To _you_ ,” Rowan said with a small nod of acknowledgement, a drop of sorrow. “I pray that my service can be taken as a sign of sincere regret, though I know nothing I do will reverse our misdeeds.”

The prince couldn’t help but to swallow away the tinge of bitterness in his throat, the bile that rose at the mention of his mother and sister’s fate, the fate of some poor boy the Spider had plucked from the street.

“Lannister, Clegane, and Baratheon are all rotting in the ground,” Aegon said. “Well, Clegane’s head is in Sunspear, that is some small solace though it was not done for my sake. There is no one left to condemn for those crimes and there is no choice but to continue forward.”

A half-truth. Aegon had no recollection of his life in Westeros, but he had plans for his future in it, some which he had revealed to no one. He wanted Clegane’s skull, he wanted Robert Baratheon’s bones and Tywin Lannister’s bones and he wanted the world to see what happened to men who tolerated such unspeakable violence. The Faith would not like it, exhuming a body outside of religious purposes would not be tolerated; he wouldn’t dream of whispering it to even Lemore who was only half as devoted as she might have others believe. A warning, but a sign of progression. Aegon did not intend to harm Tommen or Myrcella _Lannister_ in this, punishing them for the crimes of their forbearers would make him no better than those who murdered Rhaenys.

Rowan did not speak; he was waiting for an answer to his offer.

“I have to admire your disposition, Lord Rowan,” Aegon continued, settling into the hardback of his seat. “A normal man might’ve given up on breaching these walls the on the second attempt, but you found a way in on your third and turned an impossible siege on its head, emerging unscathed and victorious. If you prove to be true to your word, I will be fortunate to have you at my side.”

Aegon needed a man, and to the best of his knowledge there may not be a more intelligent and stalwart one than Rowan. What he did not need was a man who touted Aegon as _Your Majesty_ for the sake of clout alone, though with each exchange he did not feel Rowan was a someone who flattered for flattery’s sake. 

“You’ve not explained _why_ ,” Griff said in a steady voice, eyes trained on Rowan. “Why now? Why not when we had landed at Griffin’s Roost? You were close enough, you had only your own men, you could easily have marched and declared for the King there.”

 _The King_. A small portion of Aegon disliked how flippant Griff could be the with the word though he was technically the Hand of the King, though he knew the man spoke it with pride for his charge more than himself.

“Lannister rule is uneasy,” Rowan nodded, not the least bit hesitant at rising to Griff’s cold challenge. “Tyrell is swayed as easily as a wind vane and easily forgets with a strong offer. We heard of your landing, it did not cause as much concern amongst the Lords in King’s Landing as I expected, and though Kevan Lannister always has his wits about him more than others, no one else has the right to rule while you live. I had to be sure of course, that you were your father’s son, and that you were not wrought with madness as Aerys had been. I had to see your men, to know if they were worthy, if they fought like those who believed in a Targaryen prince returned from the dead.”

“They proved themselves well?” Strickland had been itching to get a word in, Aegon hadn’t failed to notice the man’s bouncing foot as they spoke.  

“With all due respect, you could be a Blackfyre, Your Majesty and it would matter little. I put my support behind Renly Baratheon, and while he had the charisma once would hope for in a king he was not half so clever or prepared as you. You took half the Stormlands in an effortless sweep. You turned our camp on its head despite not setting foot in it. You have twice the number of men expected, and each of them is a man who wants to win. The will to win in an absolute manner paired with the discipline required to conquer a kingdom is vitally important. Stannis’ forces lacked will after the Blackwater. Renly’s lacked discipline from the outset. Many overlook the two.”

“Not you,” Griff said, rubbing at his chin, leaning slightly aside in his seat as though sizing up Rowan for the first time.

“No. Not me. Even if I were to disregard my past allegiances the choice would be equally clear, Your Grace.”

More adulation, though it somehow sounded sobering from Rowan’s tight lips.

“You were the one who dared take Storm’s End as we did,” Griff continued, enjoying the test. Men died for it. Innocent people died for it.”

“Surely as a commander you can understand that I needed to show that _I_ had the will to do so. It had been planned in a speculative manner before we established our camp. I’d told Lord Tyrell and Fossoway my thoughts concerning your own success, but I never set to sending men to it. I didn’t know Tyrell had until your _girl_ rode from gods know where shouting to the heavens. It’s likely Tyrell expected that I had the audacity to split our forces and bring a third to you and so set his own plan into motion.”

 _Your girl_. It would be a delight to see Rowan’s reaction upon learning that girl was Arya Stark, but it was not for Aegon to share. Not yet.

“So Mace Tyrell did this?” Griff asked, the implications clear in Rowan’s words.

They lost men to Tyrell, to a dullard at that. And Lady Jayne Ladybright, friend of the Martells was dead at Tyrell hands. Aegon wanted peace for many reasons, and to overcome petty rivalries between families like the Martells and Tyrells was one of them. He imagined most rulers would accomplish considerably more if lords and ladies didn’t take to sparring meaninglessly amongst themselves. Regardless, it would do to not fuel further flames between the two lands.

Rowan gave a curt nod, Aegon appreciated the man’s honesty in admitting his oversights. Then, to everyone’s wide-eyed surprise, Griff gave a chortle of laughter and dragged a hand over his face with an amused sigh and the sound echoed around the cavernous hall, repeating the rare outburst a hundred times over.

“If we had sixty-four bodies to send to him we would. Three will do.” Griff said.

The hostages. Aegon had thought of them little, and at that assumed they’d remain as such. He understood Griff’s intent, but would not allow it until they’d spoken further.

“One is mine,” Rowan said. “A nephew, Perwyn Redwyne. I ask for his life.”

 “Your wife is a Redwyne,” Aegon noted, returning his gaze to Rowan after Griff’s outburst. The lord was not so much as shifting despite his knees on the hard stone.

_A will of iron, this one._

“She will be loyal and safe, as will my daughters. I wrote three days past, I ensured measures were in place should Greyjoys encroach on Goldengrove, they will follow such a plan. My son is here with me. I find it unlikely that there is anyone willing to expend time and resources on preventing their hiding.”

The man’s utter confidence in himself and in his kin was alluring and Aegon was of the mind to end this nameless game and accept Rowan to his side. But then, the man shifted, left knee to right and back again, swallowing back some sort of tension.

“If I may Your Grace,” Rowan continued, eyes on Aegon alone. “A bit of counsel before you decide what best to do with my pledge. The Lannister grip in the realm is waning, you only need loosen the last of Cersei Lannister’s clinging fingers. With your victory here and Tyrell torn in a hundred directions I expect you will find yourself on the Iron Throne imminently. But you will have to contend with Greyjoy, now or later. The Reach will be faring as well as the Riverlands and the North, and rather more chaotic if the Crow’s Eye continues, and especially once he claims Oldtown. Should your aunt decide to cross the Narrow Sea, I expect he will be seeking her hand. He may have already.”

“I fail to see the advice in your words,” Aegon said, feeling that the man was stating facts, providing a list of obvious obstacles that seemed increasingly difficult to overcome considering they’d nearly lost Storm’s End to Mace Tyrell.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I only mean that to keep the throne through winter, you cannot underestimate Euron Greyjoy, nor the power of dragonfire.”

***

Rowan was escorted back to his men who had made camp under watchful eyes with the news that they would swear fealty to Aegon on the morrow, and talk within the Round Hall quickly turned to consider the man’s words.

“We need a fleet to face Greyjoy,” Strickland said, ever vigilant, bitter still about the failure of the Volantenes to land the Golden Company and his elephants all at Griffin’s Roost.

“We’ve not even washed the blood from the stairwells,” Aegon turned to the man, exhausted as though he’d not slept at all. “I want to go to the hostages.”

There was a moment where Griff’s lips twitched with expected argument, but Aegon mustered a look at his guardian, perhaps managing to convey a sense of authority. As they walked, alone due to Aegon sending Flowers away to see to his own men, Aegon hoped to make it clear that he didn’t want to send two heads to Mace Tyrell.

“The Fossoway hostage, I want him to deliver word from me, I want people to know that we are a credible threat, that there can be peace for those who stand alongside me as Rowan has chosen,” Aegon said, though did not speak of Red Ronnet Connington. Anyone would know well that Griff had his own plans for the man, this confirmed to Aegon with a non-committal grunt from the man as they reached the first levels of the dungeons, a semi-subterranean level that ensure these holdings were not so terrible as a proper prison.

Perwyn was a boy younger than Aegon, he had held his wits in the exchange and though held in a cell with more amenities afforded a guest than a prisoner, he was disheveled from his short stint. It didn’t smell half as bad as the lower dungeons might, those without a glimpse of sunlight and where the scent of human waste somehow lingered without any prisoners. Mind, two of the invaders had been captured alive during the assault and they were currently sharing in the festering below. Here, the air was damp, and smelled mostly of sweat and bitter iron, which could be tasted in the air.

“I heard fighting yesterday,” the Redwyne boy said when Aegon approached with Griff in tow. The boy’s expression was downcast and defeated where he sat, unable to look at Aegon properly beneath a mop of dirty blonde curls. “You’ll take my head then?”

“No. Your uncle found sense, you’ll be released to him and swear fealty to me with the others.”

There was little objection, unless Aegon was proven to be mad he doubted many boys would prefer to lose than heads than mouth a string of words alongside a few hundred others.

The next cell held Robert Fossoway, Ser Tanton’s cousin and a quiet man older than Perwyn as displayed by the dark scruff that had grown in his few days in Storm’s End. He had heard the previous conversation, and sat with hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees, silent as though in prayer.

“You’ll return to the Tyrells with a message,” Aegon said, willing Griff not to suddenly counter him now. Robert Fossoway also said nothing though offered a nod, understanding full well that his lords had attacked with him still imprisoned, living collateral against their crimes.   

There was no sound from the final cell as Aegon approached, though surely Red Ronnet would be thirsting for a chance to hiss at Griff as he had on the plain days before. Instead Griff’s cousin lay still, on the ground rather than the straw bed, around him a dark puddle that didn’t need much beyond a sliver of daylight to identify itself as blood. Eyes, pale and inquisitive as Griff’s were open without seeing, thick blood coated his chin, had bubbled and dried around his nose, and crusted into his short red beard. Below that, his throat was split in two, a visible chasm beneath a shadow of blood dried black.

The guards who had been on watch during the raid were drawn away and killed, Aegon had only discovered this morning, but that gave little explanation for Red Ronnet’s departed state. Aegon stood in silence, staring at the dead man who appeared eerily as Griff the longer he watched the still body. Beside him, the live Connington had stiffened, jaw set as though grinding his teeth behind his strained cheeks.

“I want Haldon,” Aegon said to Griff, heart racing as he considered Ronnet’s end, ears ringing once more with yesterday’s din of the clashing forces.

“Why?” Griff asked, refusing to turn his gaze. 

“You know why.”

Removing himself to find the half-maester, who had likely been overrun with wounds to tend through the night, seemed to physically afflict Griff, and it was all the verification that Aegon needed. The moment Griff had reached the stairs, Aegon felt that he might sink through the floor in despair.

 _What has he done?_ He wanted to scream, but instead turned to the wall, away from the cell, and placed his forehead against its coolness, mustering his resolve to not punch at the unyielding stone. The still air was punctuated by Aegon’s unconcealed exhaling and the odd cough and stir of Perwyn and Robert, the former likely wondering why he had not yet been released. Did they know what had happened to Ronnet? Did they see or hear anything, and if so, did they care? Aegon didn’t want to know the answers. It would not do for Fossoway to reach the Tyrells and speak of a spat between Old and Young Griff, and it would not do for Perwyn to speak to his uncle of the same.

Ending Ronnet was a personal matter for Jon, Aegon knew that. He had entered the dungeons with the man expecting Griff to request returning to Griffin’s Roost with his cousin’s head and have his own claim officially realized. _But killing him in this way?_ Aegon didn’t want to believe Griff would be so rash or have such disregard for the inevitable consequences of kinslaying.

Haldon came, and Griff, in possession of the keys, passed them off to the half-maester, his hand hesitating before releasing them. There was prodding by Haldon, and he shifted the dead-weight of the corpse into the light to reveal a blue tinge across areas of clean skin, and Aegon could see how tight that skin was across Ronnet’s face, how the joints seemed to bulge and how the belly swelled, though barely gave with Haldon’s pressure.

“He’s been dead at least day, my prince,” Haldon announced, rising from his crouched position and exiting the cell. “Do you wish for me to see to the others?”

“They’re alive as you can see,” Griff said, having the sense to recognize Aegon’s rising fury. “Return to the girl.”

Without a word, Aegon opened his hand for the keys, and once Haldon departed went to release Perwyn, leaving Ronnet dead in his cell. Aegon had no remorse for the man, nor his likely painful death, and didn’t find himself looking to give him a proper burial soon. Regardless of the manner of his death his head would be of use somewhere.

At the crest of the stairs, Aegon sent Perwyn to his uncle with a guard and turned briskly to return to his chambers, Griff knowing to follow in silence. Once mounted the endless stairs in the tower, which Aegon was frankly becoming annoyed with, he was half tempted to drag Griff into the privy to keep another door between them and any prying ears. But knew better than to act as a child might, though his instincts were shouting at him to.  

Most infuriating perhaps, was Griff’s silence as Aegon turned and searched his face for some sort of answer, reaction, anything at all. There was warmth in Griff that few saw, Aegon had known it when the man had offered council and wisdom, when he had scolded Aegon and also offered him comfort and reassurance when needed. But there was none now, the man’s face was unmoved as a mountain. 

“When?” Aegon asked, taking to pacing around the sitting area to his left, hands clasped behind his back to keep from reaching for something he might regret. “Yesterday morning? Before Strickland offered me Blackfyre? Before we went to treat with men I gave my word to? We curse Tyrell for his treachery, but he is the type of man I might expect to break a vow.

“Yes.”

There might’ve been smoke in the room for how Aegon fumed, feeling that his blood had been overtaken by flames that did not burn but pulsed with greater rapidity that made it feel he had all the energy in the world to tear down what had set him so aflame. His throat was dry for it, his ears hissed as he spoke and he felt that if he struck Griff as he so badly wished to that he might end the man. Of course, Aegon knew he hadn’t the strength or the will to truly hurt his mentor, and it was moments such as this that assured him of his ancestry, no man could be turned so quickly to anger and to a mediator of fire, but that promised he had not gone mad.

Griff was ever the opposite, prone to fracture unhurriedly like ice and break only to offer chilled words that would suggest the recipient was no wiser than a speck of dirt. He had the ability to bring men down with a single look and a singular word, Jon Connington, he had the ability to hold his fury in for decides and release it one breath at a time, like a swollen waterskin, slowly and forcefully jabbed with a pin. Aegon knew the release was slow and tortuous for the man, that he might never find peace from it until Aegon was sat on the throne and his enemies bowing or dead.

“You could have waited for another to swing the sword,” Aegon shook his head, turning away to face the broad hearth that lay beneath a slim window high above them. Griff did not move, standing at Aegon’s back. “But you kill a hostage, an unarmed man in his cell, slitting his throat refusing him the chance to fight. You do this to your own _cousin_. What was your plan? What if Tyrell had not attacked and we found ourselves reaching peace and returning hostages? You think if we told them Red Ronnet had found his bloody end they’d not have sent us Lemore’s head?”

 _Kinslayer_ , the word repeated in Aegon’s head, replacing the burning and now forgotten sounds of yesterday’s battle. It was not that Aegon felt strongly about the taboo that the Westerosi so detested, that they found so much more abominable than any other crime. But it was the weight of it, the meaning of it, the scorn with which Jon would be met should the camp or other influential lords like Rowan find out.

“It was never coming to a peace. And it was him or the children, his son and siblings.”

And then the room was ice.

Aegon’s skin stabbed with the pain of his fire so rapidly crackling into a frozen state, his breath left him and he felt when he turned back to Griff it might be the last time he was capable of moving, for every muscle in his body had seized with his heart.

“You would murder children?”

It came out as a whisper, but filled the room as a desperate roar and finally Connington flinched, his grey-red beard twitched around his mouth.

“No, Aegon, I couldn’t be...” Griff’s answer came not as an assurance, but a realization. It _had_ been a consideration, Aegon could see that in his protector’s thawing eyes. All of them would have to be ruthless at times in Westeros, he knew that, Jon and others had warned him.

 “You have been a father to me, Griff. But you are my councilor here, you will officially be my Hand when I have the throne. I am not your son. I am your King who you swore to follow. _Never_ again do I want to ask if having you at my side might be detrimental to this cause,” Aegon said after a moment of settling tempers between them. “You cannot kill in my name unless I command it –”

“It was in my name,” Griff said, shaking his head. “My cousin ensured he’d die at my hands the moment he opened his mouth.”

“There isn’t room for personal matters in this!” Aegon retorted, though saw the irony in his words. “If you deign to settle _any_ dispute without my say, I will have it known what you did here, I will name you kinslayer and I will have no choice but to cast you out as my grandfather once did.”

Once more, Aegon didn’t expect he had the gall to do such a thing, but felt that it needed to be said to show Griff where the line was to be drawn between them both.

 “Your grandfather exiled me because I didn’t have the mettle to burn an entire town and all those within hiding Robert Baratheon,” Griff said, straightening himself and finding Aegon’s gaze. “To have ended that war, to see Targaryens victorious so Rhaegar could take the throne, I should have burned a thousand towns.” His words came out as though he were spitting upon Stoney Sept itself.

“And for it be damned a thousand times over. If Rhaegar was half the man you say, he would have had your head for such recklessness.” The heat was flaring again, Aegon felt it in his throat.

“You have no idea how many people he allowed to suffer for their plans,” Connington’s fists had curled at his side, but he exhaled and his tone carried softer and smoother as he continued speaking. “Nevermind, Aegon. Red Ronnet was sent to unhinge me and then our men, just as we sent Lady Lemore and the others to do. He had to die, and it had to be me. Send his head with Fossoway to King’s Landing and be over with it. A counter message to your tactful one, a promise of what happens to those who dare to deceive a dragon.”

It was likely that Aegon could not hope to receive an apology of any sort, but having at least shared his threats knew that Griff would be more likely to heed the words, understanding that the title of _kinslayer_ mightn’t suit their campaign well. Griff left the room without further discussion, but shut the doors with care rather than slamming them.

Before he could understand his own actions, Aegon grabbed at the nearest object his fingers could find, and hurled what seemed to be a wooden tray from the mantle of the hearth, spilling items to the floor before it crashed against the door. The impact caused the flat piece of wood to splinter, and as it crumpled to the floor, Aegon sank as well, Blackfyre impeding him somewhat until he unclasped his sword belt and tossed it further away. The clamour should have alerted someone, but no one came and Aegon realized he had no guard, and perhaps the only other person who might have cared was walking away.

***

The eve the battle had occurred, Aegon had gone to Duck though the man had been in a pale stupor from blood loss, and he had stumbled upon Arya Stark in his own antechambers. But he had not seen the two since, something within him unwilling to accept that both had nearly died in the mess, unable to discern how he might express his fear and gratitude to Duck, or even if he should.

Arya was another matter all-together, part of him believed this injury might encourage her to stay long enough to become an ally, yet he had no desire to discuss and work through politics with the girl. Or see to see her go.

Knowing that they were alive, recovering was comfort enough amongst the chaos of the following days, Lemore and Haldon updating them as needed, though the septa was keen on reminding him that it would due to see them with him own eyes.

Speaking to Arianne had even been simpler, though it was her impending departure the following morning, four days after the mess, which spurred Aegon into action. The days had been filled with talks and meetings, preparation for incursions south to Harvest Hall and north to Bronzegate to at last have all of the Stormlands in his grasp. Work had to continue, and Aegon could no longer ignore the personal matters that he’d dutifully ignored.  

He arrived outside of Duck’s room just as a kitchen girl was leaving, bowing hurriedly.

“What were you doing in there?” Aegon asked, though the girl’s face didn’t flush, and he was quickly remorseful for having assumed anything. The people of Storm’s End had been through enough.

“Bringing dinner, my lord – Your Highness – Your –”

Now her cheeks grew red and she cast her green eyes down to the floor.

“Gods, it’s confusing isn’t it? Bring me whatever has been made, I’ll eat here.”

The girl was off down the corridor a moment later, and Aegon felt he should have asked her name. Some of the staff he had come to recognize had been slain, and though he had offered his sympathy to the entire household for their losses and thanked them for their service Aegon felt many feared him and the uncertainty that accompanied his arrival. Storm’s End had after all never been occupied by anyone other than a stormlord.

Inside was not only Duck sitting abed with his wounded leg wrapped and propped on a pillow, but also Arya Stark sitting by the heart her left arm in the sling it had that last night he’d seen her. Before her was a serving tray on a side table with a vast array of food matching that of Duck’s which had been placed next to his bed. He had interrupted some amusing conversation between the two, Arya with a spoon in her right hand, filled with food half poised on its way to her mouth. Her grey eyes flashed over to him while Duck made his own startled exclamation at Aegon arriving unannounced.

“We were talking about you,” Arya said, her eyes darting back to Duck a second later.

“No we weren’t,” Duck stammered too quickly.

“Duck’s a terrible liar, even without his tell,” Arya said. “Look at his ears.”

Aegon hadn’t gotten a word in, but dropped his gaze to see his kingsguard cupping at his ears as if to keep them from the cold. It was utterly childish, Aegon’s first instinct was to be upset with them, though he knew there was no particular reason to be. In fact, he wanted to be part of whatever conversation they had been sharing before his arrival.

“I’m happy to see there’s enough blood in you to do that,” Aegon said as lightly as he could manage to keep with the tone of the room. Arya was more grey in colour than Duck, though neither appeared entirely well, and Aegon was realizing more and more that he’d been a poor …host?

 _Not host. King? Kings aren’t obligated to care_. _Especially for deadly northern girls_.

“I wanted to thank you both for your efforts,” he tried saying, standing at the door still, unsure of what to do with his hands, or himself, or his words.

Duck was frowning. “My lord –”

“No,” Aegon shook his head. “I need time without any titles, it’s a fucking mess, I don’t even know what I am.” He felt a distance between himself and Duck when the red-headed man acted so formally in private, and after Griff’s actions Aegon had found himself experiencing solitude far more than he wished. In the few days without Duck, he had begun to realize that the kingsguard was the nearest thing he had to a friend, one with no motive but to be there for Aegon when he needed Duck the most. 

 _Shit friend I’ve been, abandoning him in this room without a word_.

“ _That_ ,” Arya said, drawing the attention of both men as she gestured at them with her spoon. “The titles, I was telling Duck you’ve not made me swear anything here, _your Grace_. He didn’t believe I can call you whatever I like.”

“Not whatever you like, and by all accounts _your Grace_ is the least you could do,” Aegon turned to the girl. It seemed her pallid appearance had no correspondence with a dulling of her nerve. “I knew I could put a knife at your throat and make you swear loyalty and you’d be more likely to clamp on its edge with your teeth and rip it from my hands.”

“Not wrong,” Arya confirmed, turning back to her food.

The only free seats were around the hearth with Arya, so Aegon pulled an empty side table from the corner of the room and set it before one of the armchairs, which he sunk into. “I caught the kitchen, I’ll be joining you for dinner. Though I rather expected it to only be Duck. How did you get here?”

“Walked.”

“I mean, no one was watching you?” Aegon asked, his back aching as he settled into the plush of the seat wondering if he might just fall asleep here, and if anyone outside of the room would notice, or consider finding him here.

Arya shook her head, but the jolt sent pain across her face and she hissed through bared teeth before responding. “No. I haven’t seen Mooton. Just Lemore and the half-maester. I assumed since I did as promised I wasn’t being watched. Am I?”

 “Mooton’s headed to Maidenpool,” Aegon recalled, and realized in the same moment he’d not set anyone else to watch Arya. It wasn’t a matter of her escaping anymore, but more so a matter of protection.

“Back? I thought he had only been there because its where the ships got blown off to?” Duck asked, and Aegon shifted his seat slightly to ensure he was open to his kingsguard even from afar.

“Yes, but he’d been…”

Arya was listening intently of course, and at this point the girl had probably listened in on all of the keep in her days recovering, there was likely little she didn’t know.

“It was sheer luck that landed him there, and he’d thought to make the most of it, started poking around to see how he might land himself a castle. It’s his cousin holding keep there, though Tarly forces remain. Now Rowan thinks we might be able to get Maidenpool with Tarly’s in King’s Landing, so Mooton’s gone to start settling affairs.”

The Golden Company armour stolen for the Tyrell incursion had come from captives, men of the company whose ships had crashed into the beaches near Maidenpool and who were promptly captured or tracked. Half of the men from Mooton’s ship had made their way Storm’s End eventually, half remained missing, many presumed dead in the sea or at Lannister hands. Mooton’s return to Maidenpool might extend beyond a scouting mission should he find any of his brothers-in-arms, or those who killed them.

“I’ll miss his judgmental silence,” Arya mused, gesturing to Duck with her good hand, wary of moving anything remotely connected to her injured shoulder. “Now I’ve just got this invalid for company.”

“My companionship’s that bad? Don’t forgot who agreed to spar with you in that yard, girl,” Duck dropped his dark red brows to scowl at Arya, and once more Aegon felt on the outside of some unexpected budding friendship. “And don’t forget you’re an invalid as well.”

Aegon expected Arya to take the easy jab, but instead her face darkened. She had plucked a grape from a bundle on her tray and had it near her lips when Duck’s words made her reconsider and she squeeze it so the skin collapsed inwards and the meat of the grape oozed out before tossing it back at the tray in disgust. The grape bounced around as she licked at her fingers and then scoffed.

“ _I’d_ be in fucking Maidenpool now if I hadn’t been looking at the bloody window…” the words weren’t for them but rather a sort of musing, the same sort of flowing speech she had when telling Aegon of how she’d turn the waters of the Riverlands red with Frey blood. “Has Arianne left yet?”

“Yet?” asked Aegon.

“I can’t imagine she wants to stay,” Arya said with a breathy sort of insolence that Aegon recoiled at. 

“She leaves tomorrow. I’m not sure we agreed on a single thing, but I’ve written my uncle, Prince Doran. It’s his support I truly need, not hers.”

“He trusted her to come here as his envoy. Did you explain everything that happened or just beg for support?” Arya asked, the cheek still thick in her voice. Aegon wondered if he might indeed be grateful for her to leave, and questioned how any of her siblings had ever put up with her at all. Though that was line of thought best not continued.

 “I don’t beg,” Aegon retorted, sharp like a dart, though Arya didn’t flinch. “I explained everything. I even said Jayne had been grievously injured, but her suffering was short due to the mercy of my own men. I’ve sent further letters with Arianne that can be taken to her family. She asked who you are, of course. Claims you saved her life. I said I’d tell her before she leaves, though I haven’t yet decided if I will.”

The girl sat across from him said nothing and plucked a new grape from the purple bunch, popping it in her mouth, not quite closing it so the sound spread around the room. It should have disgusted Aegon, but instead made him wish to reach over and grab one as well.

_What the fuck? Wait for your own food._

“You should tell her it was me,” Arya said. Both Aegon and Duck looked to one another, mouths twisted in bewilderment. “I’ve been thinking, if I’m going to be in the Riverlands, it will be helpful if people believe I’m here with you lot.”

“You want your name out?” Aegon’s words came out hesitant, not quite believing.

“I can’t stay in my damned room or Duck’s forever, I’m not your prisoner any longer. You owe me that. People have already seen my face, well, this face, and some will know what a northern girl looks like even if they don’t have my name. Tell Arianne, she might tell others.”

“And if people ask your name?” It was Duck who asked for Aegon.

“Just Arya,” she said with a touch of pride. “Anyone with half a brain will put it together. You don’t have to start rumours, just don’t stop any that crop up. Haldon showed me the letter Ser Farring received – what happened to him?”

Aegon, stunned by her sudden desire to be recognized in his camp, shrugged in an effort to remain composed. “Unsure. Doesn’t matter, keep is ours with one less prisoner and stormlord.”

“I’m sure Rowan would’ve liked a trophy,” she said, her eyes glowing a touch deviant. “I saw the letter, and if Farring was meant to know the Arya Stark in Winterfell was a fake, others will know too. Stannis Baratheon might’ve wanted the realm to know, why else send ravens that can be easily intercepted?  It will create interest at the very least, and help keep my path to the Twins clear.”

“Aren’t you able to just… you know, look different?” Duck asked.

Arya sighed, and Aegon noticed the small cut on her forehead that had appeared with her switching faces. He didn’t know still how it happened, but it seemed Lemore’s plan of bringing Arya the tools required for it had panned out in the Tyrell camp. Lemore might’ve seen her switch faces… he had yet to ask. There’d be so little time for all his particular queries.

“Not so simple, and I have to save it. Tell Arianne who I am, Aegon, before she leaves. She’ll either spread it or keep it secret. You can use it to your advantage in some way, leverage, pretending that no one else knows. She’s likely to share it regardless, and if she doesn’t people – her father – will wonder how she couldn’t have known and she’ll be discredited for anything else she might say about her time here.”

Arya had gone to help Arianne, potentially saving her life, and now she seemed rather keen to use the princess to her own advantage. Something had shifted within the girl who had come to them seeking no connections and no role in their pursuits, and Aegon found himself admiring it.

“I suppose you’ve realized if Arianne knows she’ll be indebted to you?”

Arya seemed confused for the moment, and then shook her head, forgetting her injury once again before wincing. “No. That’s not why –”

“Well, she would be. It’d be another benefit to you, should you meet again. From the little I know, she’s always ensnared in some sort of plot, best to have someone like that owe you.”

“Griff wants her a secret still, no? Arya, that is.” Duck asked, his tone more serious now as it always was when he referred to Griff, the man who had knighted him. Most knights had little honour, it was something Aegon knew from his brief time amongst the landless knights of the Golden Company, but he had always believed Griff to be different. Perhaps Duck was the remaining honourable men amongst them, though he had joined the Golden Company after nearly killing his lord’s son in a brutal act of retaliation. They were all lacking, Aegon knew.

He didn’t want to reveal the rift that had grown with Griff, for all anyone knew Red Ronnet had been killed in the attack, no one cared to question it further and so chose his words with care.

“Griff isn’t the King. Most of his anger stems from the simple fact that you resemble Lyanna Stark and he’s worried for how other exiles from the rebellion might react. If people see you walking freely around, they won’t be thinking I’ve gone off and… well I suppose I have captured you. But you’ll be gone avenging your family soon enough,” Aegon explained. “If anything, it will serve to anger our shared enemies further, which is very much a benefit in my opinion. Thank you for joining my camp, Arya Stark.”

Aegon raised his voice on the last words, offering her a slight nod to which Arya allowed a small grin to grow, her face somewhat less grey for a fraction of a second. Just as he had been relieved to use his own name in this land, he guessed she too would be relieved at hearing hers spoken by another one more.

 “You’d best be ready for attention,” Duck said with a sigh, a jest in attempt to put their minds at ease. “When I was Homeless Harry’s squire no one batted an eye, now I’ve made a name for myself and everyone’s calling me Ser. Though after my performance on the field I’d wager the attention might be a bit different.”

 “You didn’t die. I didn’t die,” he said to Duck. “That is generally considered a success.”

“ _You need more kingsguard_ ,” Arya said repeating the word’s Aegon had heard a hundred times over. “I can help.”

Finally, the kitchen maid knocked and entered at Aegon’s bidding, crossing the room and placing a tray laden with multiple bowls and plates and a cup of warmed wine before him before eyeing Arya. He cleared his throat, confused, and the girl gave a curtsey to Aegon, before exiting again. On his first night in Storm’s End it had been raining, of course, the skies did little else here, and Aegon made it known he’d want warm wine with his evening meals to keep his bones from the perpetual damp. He took a sip of it, easing at the heat gliding down his throat and pooling within him before returning to the conversation.

Aegon locked eyes with Arya, and then flicked his gaze to her shoulder. “How? Fighting them yourself and seeing which is best?”

“I can tell if they’re lying.”

“Lying?”

“When they pledge their lives and swords.” Now Arya was tipping a bowl of broth into her mouth, holding it with her right hand and looking over its rim at Aegon. “I _know_ when people lie.”

Aegon caught the emphasis in her words, decided it would be a fitting skill for a trained assassin to have, and decided to ignore the half-threat buried in her speech. For all he could remember, he didn’t believe he had lied to her, only misled.

“So what, you propose I interrogate some prospects with you at my side? _Pledge your life and sword, Arya Stark will have your tongue –_ ”

“No stupid,” Arya scoffed and Duck stifled a laugh as Aegon felt himself freeze.

 _Stupid_. He didn’t think anyone had ever called him that, not in such a casual manner as Arya just had. She ignored it.

“Have them fight as King Jaehaerys did with his, a sort of tourney. Visenya chose the first Kingsguard for their loyalty, but Jaehaerys chose many of his for their strength and came to know their loyalty after. It’s more suiting for your situation, and you’ve at least got a Lord Commander to help.”

Aegon had to rack his mind to recall the origins of the Kingsguard, and then the early days of Jaehaerys reign. How Arya could recollect each so simply perturbed him.

“I can’t fill all the vacancies,” Aegon said, somewhat agreeing though Duck had frozen with the prospect and seemed to attempt to stammer some objection against his title. “I need room for future allies. Dorne, Riverlands if possible. The north…”

“Two then. The two who win after a series of tests. And you could have them wear plain armour so it’s fair. Give Rowan’s men a chance to prove themselves on even footing with the Golden Company.” Arya spoke with such clarity, Aegon might’ve guessed she’d been so bored in her days abed that her mind had turned to this and had rehearsed it. She remained unpredictable as ever.

“Yes, Duck?” Aegon turned to his friend who had continued to sputter, his normally reddened cheeks even further aflame. “You were always bound to be Lord Commander you realize?”

The pale red of Duck’s hair seemed nearly blond in comparison with his face, light hazel eyes were wide. “I – If you think I am worthy?”

“I trust you, and I’ll trust you more than those who wear the white with you for a time. If you’re both to be there, you need to be well enough. Griff’s recalled most of our serjeants from the fortresses around the Stormlands, there’s to be a gathering before we proceed again. Everyone’s restless as it is, might be best to provide some entertainment before the men make it themselves.”

While Harry Strickland was ever eager to move at a forgiving pace, Griff had warned Aegon that the men of the Company, especially those at a distance from Storm’s End, would be eager to move along to something more fruitful, that Brendel Byrne might not be an isolated case. Rowan and Strickland had been devising ways to integrate the two forces, all in agreement that a united army, something Westeros had always lacked, would be key in taking the throne. Arya’s idea was what Aegon needed, a means of bringing them all together before setting out once more.

As he finally tucked into his food, Arya and Duck discussing what trials might be best, he found himself grinning as he imagined the look on Griff’s face when the man learned that Arya Stark’s name might be all but written in the pages of the White Book. Was it immature to want to provoke Griff so? Yes, entirely. But it took little to remember Red Ronnet’s split throat, and it took little to want to twist the Griffin.

***

Relief was perhaps the singular way to describe his sentiments towards Arianne, Elia and the others leaving the morning after his feast with Duck and Arya. After the breach of the castle, his cousins had demanded explanation into how such a thing could have happened, how he would allow them to be endangered so after taking them as rather unwilling guests. There was a heart within Aegon though, he felt the pull of dread in knowing that Lady Jayne had died in his keep, that they would return her body to her family, that he may not see the only family he had again.

Well, Dornish family.

Many close, including Lord Rowan, had come to know that Arianne had been in Storm’s End, but if word spread further there would be little benefit, and Arianne had warned it put his cousins, Tyene and Nymeria, at risk in King’s Landing. There were many arguments to be made against that matter, why should he care for those that continued to support the Lannister children, but he had little energy to argue for long.

“I will write you when we arrive in Sunspear,” Arianne promised, the only of her companions not yet mounted and ready to ride south, back to the ship that would escort them home. A covered cart containing a casket with Jayne’s body had been hitched to a team of horses, lined up with a handful of Aegon’s men. They had convened outside of the wall, towards the valleys of the south, though they all waited on a small promontory and against the dark morning light looked a sinister group silhouetted in black. “I expect you will hear word from my father as well.”

He took Arianne’s gloved hand and placed a kiss on the back of it as he ought to. Arya had reminded him that Prince Doran had trusted his daughter, and Arianne had found him wanting through all of their verbal sparring, attempts to better understand one another, so Aegon hoped even the smallest of formalities might redeem him in some way.

Arianne raised her dark brows as she dropped into a curtsy before him. “You know my offer.”

“I do.”

Behind them, with a dusty indigo glow of pre-dawn illuminating her atop her stead, Elia scoffed and pushed her thick braid over her shoulder. Aegon hadn’t exchanged many words with his other cousin, she was still only a girl, perhaps the age of Arya Stark, and apparently quite as deadly.

“Cousin,” he nodded at her with the most charming grin he could muster.

“Cousin Egg,” Elia raised her chin and looked down upon him.

“What?” Aegon asked, unsure if he should be offended or not.

Elia laughed, the sound deep and haughty as though she were the elder of the two and Aegon was but a toddling boy.

“Egg. Aegon the Unlikely? Dunk and Egg? Has no one called you Egg?” Her thick dark brown knit in confusion then, and almost genuine concern.

Aegon narrowed his eyes, hoping he was half as expressive as his cousin. He was of the mind that he preferred when she had spoken little. “No, because I’m not – I suppose you’re the first. Maybe it’ll catch.”

Directly before him, Arianne rolled her dark eyes and he was glad to see at least a breath of humour ease over her face after the tumult experienced as his guest. As she turned on Elia, she spoke. “Quite finished, Elia?”

“If he wanted to marry you, he’d have arranged it by now,” Elia quipped, flashing her eyes to Arianne. The two were alike, though Elia thinner, less womanly in appearance, a touch paler. Unlike Arianne she spoke plainly and outside of the boundaries of the clever political dance.

“It will not matter who either of us wants,” Arianne said without emotion. Next to Elia, the cart to his right was Ser Daemon shifted on his seat. Aegon wondered if his head had recovered enough from the blow he sustained, but Arianne had either been confident in his healing or cared little for his well-being and was willing to leave him where he fell. “It will matter who is needed the most.”

 _Daenerys_ , the name went unspoken. Of course, Quentyn could well have seduced Aegon’s aunt, but somehow he doubted it. Word would have come across the Narrow Sea, and quickly, at such an event. She seemed to doubt it as well as more time passed.

“You offered me one last thing, Aegon,” Arianne said, stepping closer, her silky voice lowering so her excitable cousin could no longer hear. She spoke his name as though they were indeed cousins that had known one another their entire lives, her almond eyes narrowing as she dared him to keep his word.

_“If I tell you, you cannot tell a soul.”_

_“I am alive because of her, no thanks to you and Lord Rowan.”_

It shouldn’t have been so straight-forward to manipulate someone who so wished to marry him and find herself as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet with a name it was. Hoping the dark chilled morning might accentuate his breath and cast suggestive shadows, he leaned down and placed his lips near her ear so the others might think him kissing it. Let Daemon squirm and Elia mock.

“Arya Stark.”

“I don’t believe you,” Arianne breathed, her body had grown tense and as he pulled back he saw her jaw was set, and she watched him unblinking.

“I have nothing to gain by lying.” He knew she would believe him, even if it were through describing the girl to others who could confirm her looks.

“You have much to gain if it is the truth,” she said, and a beat later, she nodded in understanding. “And you expect my loose lips.”

He did. Truly. Arianne was his cousin, and even if she had not expressed her ulterior motives so plainly and had proven a staunch supporter rather than one weighing her options, he knew she would not keep such information to herself

“I look forward to your letter, cousin, and I wish you safe travels. I hope to see you again.”

***

It took four days from when Aegon proposed the impromptu tourney to set it in place and to allow those interested yet scattered across the Stormlands time to arrive. Truthfully, the bustle that came with organizing the event was a welcome distraction from his lingering frustration with Griff, though Griff was better at pretending nothing had come between them and expressed active enthusiasm at the idea of Aegon finally taking steps to find ‘proper’ kingsguard. Of course, Griff’s rare smile was dashed when Aegon revealed in private that it had Arya’s suggestion.

“The last tournament that had a Targaryen and a Stark –” Jon had started, pacing about the map room after others had left.

“Is it not exhausting to harp on that day? Hardly anyone knows who Arya is, and anyone who recognizes her will just assume she’s Lemore’s student,” Aegon countered. He had seen Arya about the castle, and had learned from further conversations that she had always preferred to befriend the staff, and frequent the kitchen and armoury and stables at Winterfell and seemed to be doing the same here. For now, there was little chance of anyone seeing her as anything beyond another part of their mixed batch of foreigners and exiles. “From there she’ll be able to listen to the men, determine their motives, especially the two who win. Your life might be much simpler Griff, if you consider her an asset and not a burden.”

“It’s not that,” Griff shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face, gloved as ever, perhaps the perpetual chill bothered an older man more than it did Aegon. “I recognize her skill. But I’ll be glad to see her use it elsewhere.”

A makeshift set of tourney grounds had been constructed during those four days, two sets of stands posted across from one another on the plain near where the pavilion for talks with the Reach forces had been. Additional wooden barriers had been pieced together which would serve as perimeter fences for the melees and for finish markings for the races.

As custom dictated, Aegon arrived last, though Duck, now walking on a tightly bandaged and sore leg, and Griff accompanied him to the center of one of the stands, Aegon sitting in the sole proper seat. Duck remained at his right while Griff went to the higher step to join Rowan, his son, nephew and trusted man Luthor Kidwell who wore a striking green surcoat embroidered with patterns of swirling ivy. Strickland had even persuaded Lysono the spymaster and Gorys the paymaster to come out for the festivities, the three off to the top left corner behind Aegon. Lemore sat to Duck’s left, though Arya, who was meant to stay with the Septa, was nowhere to be seen.

The serjeants and officers of the Golden Company were scattered around Aegon, though some were missing and the men had taken to betting which of the contestants might be from amongst their ranks while the officers of Rowan’s company, mostly grouped to Aegon’s left, did the same.

A notable absence was that of Brendel Byrne, who had been stripped of his rank, his men given instead to Marq Mandrake who had proven himself in the taking of Estermont. Byrne had been reduced to little more than a stablehand, lower than even his squires who he had baited into helping him hoard supplies. Apparently he had supporters in his ill-planned endeavor to leave and take some part of the Westerlands, though in light of Rowan’s reports of the dire state of the west such a plot became entirely laughable.

Word went around of Byrne, Aegon ensured that, and he and Griff had agreed an emotional penalty would be much more suitable than physical for a man so stupid; Byrne had proved loyal in the brief clash with the Reachman, had truly believed his plot would help Aegon’s cause, and he had not taken from their monetary reserves. Best to save the taking of heads for only those clever enough to be intentionally treasonous.

As the first event was announced Aegon noticed in the stands across the field that Essosi and Westerosi, exiled or not, gambled coin or pieces of ornaments, gems, rings as they exchanged the names of their friends they expected to be wearing a white cloak by night’s end. Fewer than a hundred fit in the built shelters, and as the first competition was to be a race completed in heats of twenty, hundreds of other men lined the plain east towards the keep on its promontory, and west to the hills.

An archer from the Summer Isles wearing his cape of bright orange feathers stepped into the center of the field directly before Aegon, holding a dragon bone horn curved at odd angles and the size of a man’s head. He looked to Aegon for confirmation, and as the prince gave a nod the man sounded the contraption, a low yet thunderous rumbling settling over the lands, reverberating in Aegon’s very bones. To the east, the races began.

“How many do you reckon crash?” Duck asked, both straining their necks to the mass of splattering mud and shouting rolling towards them.

“I doubt more than six riders can span the finish line,” Aegon said, the soil beneath them shifting as the riders grew closer. After being trodden through the first events, the pit for the melee would likely be little more than a slough, though Aegon guess that might be a suitable obstacle for those looking to prove themselves. He never hoped to need defending from his kingsguard in a slough, but one could never be too prepared.

Duck perhaps was more nervous than Aegon, even his injured leg vibrating as he leaned forward in anticipation. A habit taken from Strickland perhaps.

It ten riders that finished near each other after clamouring through the narrowed field which marked the finish just to the west. The spectators in the lower rows or standing too near the wooden fencing were black with sticky clay mud kicked up by the storm of horses and men, and soon abandoned their seats to the jeers of others sitting and standing pretty behind them.

Aegon had decided that at least the best eight of each heat would progress, but in seeing the competitiveness of the riders astride their mounts for his sake, he allowed the ten to prepare for the following trial. Six more rode in at varied paces, while another four had fallen so far behind, or off their horses entirely that they were taken from consideration. After each of the seven heats, those expelled from the competition joined their on-looking companions by removing their helms to reveal their identities, and good-naturedly bowing to Aegon.

“Peake’s not anywhere,” Duck was glancing around as the fences were moved around for the following event, as wine and ale were poured by cupbearers and kitchen staff alike.

“Which one?”

“Either of them,” Duck scratched at his beard, concerned. “I don’t think they’d take well to me telling them off or ordering them about, Lord Commander or not.”

Aegon didn’t want to think of who was or was not competing, he knew his mind might run off at the potential combinations of men he would wind up with, and it was best to avoid the rising anxiety and allow the completion to play out as it was meant to. His life might be in any of these men’s hands, the realization making him increasingly uneasy.

The second races began soon after, the same Summer Islander waited for Aegon’s assent before sounding the grand dragon bone horn once more. The field had been shortened, the remaining competitors were lined up in their various forms of armour at a distance so that Aegon would have been able to make out their faces had they been positioned closer. Sixty-eight were gathered, and eight ran at a time, the best four of each would progress to the first of melee competition Aegon had planned for the afternoon. It was meant to be difficult for the men and something few could prepare for, running across a field in armour, and those with lighter layers may win, though only if others were unwilling to sabotage their companions in the race.

A Kingsguard should be swift yes, but also relentless when required, and strong enough to carry himself across that field no matter the armour nor the foes.

This event brought more laughter than the previous, some men making utter fools of themselves and ending up sprawled face or ass first in the mud, others grappling each other all the way down so they slowed only themselves and were surpassed by others. In the sixth round Aegon noticed Arya slip into the stands from between masses of onlookers, taking a silent place beside Lemore. She had her sword at last, it was something Aegon had forgotten about until she berated him for its return. It wouldn’t be possible to use it with her left hand, arm still immobile in a sling, but she carried it all the same and he didn’t doubt she might be able to inflict damage with the seemingly innocuous blade and her weak hand.

“You realized I’d fail each of these,” Duck said as the final race came to an end, three crossing the line simultaneously and the fourth straggling far behind enough Aegon had been tempted to call the man from the competition. Something about the day had brought him less excitement than he hoped, though why he couldn’t say. It paid that everyone else seemed to enjoy themselves, he needed their dispositions in a positive state more than his own. “I’m not the fastest, not on foot or by horse.”

“You don’t think you’d have tackled your way to the front?” Aegon asked.

“Might’ve done,” Duck shrugged. “Just sets a precedent doesn’t it? Men might be asking me to see how I fair in the same trials in the future. Knighted in a field of ducks’ all I have to say. Named after them too.”

Aegon had a response on his tongue, but in that moment he felt eyes on him and knew to find Arya in the growing crowd at the base of the stands as men exited to stretch their legs and gather refreshments provided from the nearby camps. He joined Lemore and Arya where they stood, all those remaining rose as he did and watched as he stepped over the descending seats.

“Any observations?” He asked Arya. The crowds passing by them took little notice, perhaps recognizing Arya as being Lemore’s girl, and knowing by now the closeness Aegon had to his septa.

“More people appreciate you than I thought possible,” Arya smirked, one corner of her mouth twitching up and her grey eyes sparkled with mirth. He had noticed, especially in this perpetual drab corner of the world, that the shade of her eyes, nearly black towards the pupil were a brighter shade of grey than he had ever seen. “Of course I heard a few saying they were in it for the fun, reckon they’ll freeze up at the thought of giving up women and bow out rather than win. Didn’t hear or see anything else questionable. How’s Duck?”

Lemore followed Aegon’s gaze to his friend. “He looks a touch pale, Aegon.”

“He’s creating stresses for himself,” Aegon shrugged off Lemore’s warning tone. “He’ll be pleased when he’s ordering them around, he always was when he was training me. Right, I’ve been encouraged to circulate the camp. When the time comes, I’ll pose a few questions to the victors, I need you sit where you were, I’ll be able to see you nod if they’re true to their words. And again later, before the feast.”

“And if they’re not?” Arya asked, her dark somewhat unruly brows furrowing.

“I’ll figure something out.”

With a touch to Lemore’s arm he turned to join Griff and Rowan who were waiting for him a few paces away. Rowan’s eyes narrowed with inquisition as they often seemed to be, Griff’s rolling with continuous distaste though his body was relaxed and Aegon had heard him enjoying the spectacle throughout the morning.

As they walked through the organized rows of tents of the Golden Company with the Reachmen’s tents interspersed throughout them, Rowan took to introducing Aegon to many of his men, while Griff, knowing Aegon didn’t know most names, presenting ranked men of the Company to Rowan and Kidwell.

 _Your Majesty_ , was the common phrase and Aegon supposed that when he had three Kingsguard, even without the Iron Throne, he might appear that much more legitimate.

“Your Majesty,” Rowan said as they returned to the stands after drinking more ale and eating plated assortments of food brought to them while touring. “May I sit with you for the final events? Word has it a number of my men remain, I might like to comment on their character if I am able to identify any.”

The request took Aegon aback, but only because he had not expected Rowan to ask permission for such a thing. Griff and Strickland, Lemore and Haldon, even some of the serjeants joined him as they pleased, some of the older serjeants likely to clasp Aegon on the shoulder as they did.

“Of course, Lord Rowan. I would be thankful for your company. Your son and nephew may join if they wish as well.”

“I expect they’ll be in their cups with the crowd,” Rowan offered Aegon a smile, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth showing beneath his lips.

The third trial, Aegon had added for a touch of lightheartedness. Upon recognizing that Duck was indeed his only close friend, Aegon also recognized that the men would be Duck’s brothers as much as Aegon’s protectors, and at that needed to at least have a moderate temperament. Duck mightn’t be the best at any of these tasks, it was in fact unlikely he’d have won such a competition. But skill alone had not drawn Aegon to Duck, and nor should it to these men.

All participants had gathered in the center, awaiting commands for the melee.

“You’ve succeeded thus far in proving yourselves to be efficient on a mount, and nimble or colossal in your tread, depending on your approaches. I expect my kingsguard to be adaptable, and this next trial will ask that you lay down your arms and instead take those offered,” Aegon said and as he raised a hand a number of crates with blunted weapons of a vast variety brought out. “And that you wield them with your less dominant hand. Traditional melee procedures are in effect, and you will begin at the sounding of the horn.”

There was silence for a moment, no man moved, and then a ruble of laughter broke out across the field, and then it rippled in a wave that eventually impacted the competitors, many considerably more eager than others to take up the challenge.

“A – a creative solution,” Rowan said, as Aegon sat and the men aligned themselves around the field, testing the weigh and movement of their borrowed weapons. “You do not fail to surprise at each turn, my King. But who moves to the final trial?”

“There will be enough victors,” Aegon smiled, and hoped that Rowan might keep his thoughts to himself for a short time, enough for Aegon to enjoy the nonsense that he had planned would ensue. Duck had taken Rowan’s place and was animatedly commentating the mess to Lord Kidwell who seemed to enjoy the kingsguard’s company.

There was truthfully no way to ensure the men did not use their dominant hand, and the clashes of some rather expectedly uncontrolled attacks saw that swords and axes and even flails flung from men’s uncomfortable loosened grips with little force applied. Other’s laid down their arms, swearing at the imbecility of it all and deciding evidently, that no King’s honour was worth such embarrassment. Other men were making the most of the peculiar opportunity, finding creative manners of moving, retreating and attacking in unpredictable patterns so that their opponents could hardly land a hit.

When it seemed half the field had cleared, Aegon nodded for the horn to sound once more, and the field, came to an unceremonious halt.

“Alas, I cannot watch anymore of this struggle. The lot of you, including those defeated will proceed to the final trial. Those who excused themselves from the field may not return.”

Less time elapsed before more amusement rang through the damp air, many catching that the event had been only a test of character and nothing more, though Aegon did hope that the victors might be those who had been able to wield well with both hands.

Horses were returned to the field, most men reclaimed their weapons though the sullen few who had left the field of their own accord were lightheartedly taunted by their companions as they removed their helms and were swallowed by the crowd before Aegon could see their faces.

Not a breath after the horn sounded and men spurred their steads into action, Rowan turned to Aegon, his voice low, almost indistinguishable above the roar rising from the field.

“Were you going to tell me that you of all people have been the one to locate Arya Stark?”

Something about Mathis Rowan grated Aegon, whether it was positive or negative he could not entirely say. The man was bold beneath his genial veneer whereas others claimed a boastful temperament when they were meek within.

“Have you met a Stark?” Aegon asked. Despite Arya suggesting she would like to be known, Aegon did not suspect she would wish him to tell Lord Rowan so overtly.

“Most recently, Sansa Stark, who I danced with at her own wedding. Previous to that, Catelyn Stark in Renly Baratheon’s camp. Tullys through and through, yes, but even with the looks of the north, your girl has a particular kind of scrutiny in her expression that I’ve seen each of them wear.”

 _Gods_ , Aegon wanted to shrink into himself. _Is there any point in lying? Is there anything this man doesn’t notice?_

Lord Rowan was watching Arya now instead of the melee, and Aegon was watching Lord Rowan. A space of time passed before Aegon spoke, enough to confirm Rowan’s speculations.

“Jon think she looks like Lyanna Stark.”

Rowan shifted, and then sighed. “I received word that my daughter had been born during that tournament, so I never laid eyes on Lyanna Stark. I will say most northern ladies have a sternness about them I haven’t seen in others however, I’d recognize it anywhere. How did you find her?”

“Some men who survived Maidenpool recognized a Stark and brought her as a captive. Two other groups had identified her as well, and judging by your surprise it seems neither of them were Tarly men,” Aegon explained, relieved in knowing that Rowan might not berate him for the same things as Griff. “She’s earned her freedom, and once she’s healed she’s free to go.”

“Where?”

“Wherever she was before, I suppose.” Arya wanted to move unreservedly in the Riverlands, Aegon would not give her plans away, even to gain Rowan’s trust.

The Lord of Goldengrove thought on that for a moment, shifting in his seat and crossing his arms. “Not seen for years and suddenly she appears only to be immediately identified by three separate parties. Evidently, the Bolton Arya Stark is a fake, and this one is much cleverer than entire kingdoms have considered. Until now. Unless she wanted to be identified.”

 _That is not something I’ve considered_ , Aegon thought, hoping Rowan didn’t see the surprise in his expression. But Rowan didn’t know Arya, he didn’t know that her greatest wish was to end those who had wronged her family, that she had little concern for politicking and subtle treachery.

“Farring was sent word before we arrived, Stannis Baratheon has the false Arya Stark, just some poor northern girl who managed to escape. I expect you will suggest I take this girl and use her to gain the north.”

“I would suggest nothing of the sort, Your Grace,” Rowan was smirking, the peppered stubble of his bear bristling like a curling hedgehog. “The Riverlands are a different matter. The Blackfish is at large and Edmure Tully is at Casterly Rock. She has family yet.”

Aegon feigned consideration for only a moment before speaking. “The moment I force Arya Stark to do anything she does not wish is the moment our cause is ended. She’s coaxed one of the Mountain’s men up a tower only to bleed him out and leave him fodder for fish in a canal below just for some harm he’d done her friend years ago. She killed two of my men in Maidenpool and a considerable number of Tyrell’s men when they stormed this keep. I expect the punishment of a king who crosses her would be much worse,” Aegon said, and then turned his head back to the field. Perhaps he was saying too much, but he wanted it clear that Arya would not be part of their meddling.

“Do you not choose kingsguard now to protect you from such things?” Rowan asked, feeling Aegon’s dismissal of the conversation and easing his tone.

“I reckon she could take them. She was the girl in your camp after all.”

As the number of prospects dwindled and Aegon watched on with Lord Rowan, he felt increasingly that this may be all some sort of bizarre daydream. When had he come to the point where he could command a tournament to be held to find men to protect him? How had he come to sit beside a prominent Westerosi Lord and discuss Arya Stark of all people?

Eleven hopefuls remained, all on foot now. Then three were in the dirt. Aegon set his lips tight to keep a neutral expression, wanting to jeer and laugh with those around him.

Anxiety was settling deeper beneath his skin when five still stood. Three took him down together, someone they evidently had come to know throughout the challenge though who Aegon had not noticed.

No word had been given on how many placements would be filled, but the fighters continued feinting, lunging, striking, spinning with such intensity and endurance Aegon was tempted to take them all.

Eyes fell to him when three remained, waiting for him to call it and announce the three as victors. But when a sharp blow landed on the plates between thigh and knee, and a well-placed kick followed Aegon made no move to end it.

Despite the unease spiraling within him, it was impossible to ignore the stares, the attention and he realized – not for the first time – the power he held in this outlandish existence.

 _Let them wait_.

The final two seemed to believe only one of them would gain a white cloak then, their grunts of exhaustion and effort combined rattled through the air the same as their blades on plate and wooden shields. One, somewhat taller than the other was readying to drop a shoulder and run the other into the depths of the mud pit when Aegon rose.

“Stop!”

The smaller man slipped at Aegon’s words and clattered into the mud all the same, much to the amusement of the entranced onlookers. His opponent offered a hand, lugging him from the mud, the action bringing an unexpected grin to Aegon’s lips.

 “Our victors!” Aegon announced, raising his arms to gesture at the two. “Remove your helms.”

The man half slathered in mud was none other than Tristan Rivers with his flash of sable hair and ruddy red beard, and light brown eyes. He had been the one to speak against Illyrio’s plans, who had expressed his confidence in Aegon in the same breath. His reveal sent ripples of shock through the men of the Company, Aegon felt his own eyes growing wide in surprise and heard Strickland curse behind him.

The other was a man Aegon did not recognize, but it was Rowan’s turn to made a sound of approval. The fighter was lean yet broad shouldered, his hair cropped close with sharp eyes shaded by dark heavy brows and a stubble peppered the man’s jawline. From a distance, Aegon could see freckles spotted across the man’s face. Amongst the Reachmen in attendance, many seemed to be nodding in approval and support.

“Rivers,” Aegon nodded to the one he knew, feeling at ease for perhaps the first time the entire day. Someone he knew, even at a distance. “I thought you a stalwart sellsword, sworn to gold and women and blood.”

“I thought myself one as well,” River grinned, his eyes, blue like a clear sky, shone with mirth. “Thought I might have been lord of Crow’s Nest once I took it, thought it might be why I was called here. Found out I wasn’t, decided to prove myself otherwise.”

“You were never getting Crow’s Nest,” Griff grumbled from his head behind Aegon, sending those around them into a swirl of laughter at his persistent gloom.

“What child didn’t grow up with tales of the white cloaks?” Rivers continued. “What bastard low-born ever thought himself having the chance to be amongst them? I swore once you were the only dragon we needed, Your Grace, and I believe it now more than before.”

Strickland was in some sort of discomfort behind Aegon, moaning about something and Aegon turned to regard him. The captains round face grew red with embarrassment. He might have been the one to return Blackfyre to Aegon, something Aegon had yet to fully understand, but the man seemed a fool from time to time.

“I’m not losing one of my best –”

“You do if I say so,” Aegon said with a snap. “And our other champion? From the Reach I presume?”

The man gave a nod of his rather square head and made to speak, yet it was Lord Rowan’s voice booming from beside Aegon.

“Ser Ryam Webber, knighted for his heroics at the Blackwater,” Rowan said. “Hailing from Coldmoat.”

 _Coldmoat_. As if Aegon could possibly remember where that might be, or what the sigil of House Webber was. Whereas the Golden Company fell into a roar of raucous cheers, some rather surprised, there was a sort of silence over the crowd when Aegon had turned his attention to Webber, and he heard Duck shift around behind him. Duck knew Rivers, better than Aegon, but he wouldn’t have an idea about this new man…

“Targaryens have allowed Webbers to claim and keep Coldmoat over time,” Ryam Webber said, his voice clear across the strange silence. “We’ve since forgotten our place, I will be the Webber to recall it, Your Grace. It would be an honour to pledge myself to a rightful and considerate king.”

“Each of you realizes the life you would leave behind, and the life you would be entering?” It was Griff who asked from behind Aegon, stern enough to remind Aegon that no matter their conflict, Griff was his ultimate protector and advocate, through and through.

“Yes, my Lord,” Webber said with a nod.

“Happily so,” Rivers grinned.

Rivers spoke subtly of glory and honour, Webber of allegiance. Aegon glanced to Arya who had watched the men with intent, wide eyes before turning to him. Her chin moved slightly, the smallest subtlest of nods. They spoke true, at least here in front of all these people; he would speak with them again prior to the feast so that Duck could have his say and so that a shadowy cat might listen further.

Aegon commenced the evening of celebration with the announcement of the feast, and quietly had Webber and Rivers escorted to the keep for their further talks. As everyone flooded from the stands, Duck starting off with Lemore and Arya once he reached the ground, Rowan remained sidled next to Aegon.

“You trust her?”

He spoke of Arya of course, Aegon doubted the man would quit thinking of the Northern girl’s value for some time to come.

“I do.” Aegon said, not meeting his eyes.

“A rarity that is. I mean no offense, Your Grace. These Stark women have a tendency to disappear at critical moments and many things may have been different these past years had they not. If you trust her to help you, why not keep her close?”

***

Once, Aegon might have said the day on which the rest of his life would hinge would have been the day that Golden Company pledged themselves at Volon Therys, or the day he and a handful of men claimed Storm’s End from within.

Later he would say it had been this day. There was a remarkable shift within the air itself, as though it stirred with the vigour of men who felt their cause was more validated than it had ever been before. Essosi and Westerosi alike had cheered when Rivers and Webber rose from their knees, garbed in white and gold. And within those celebrations the collective masses hailed Aegon as the Sixth of his Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms, caring not for thrones and crowns as tools of legitimation. Aegon could not deny feeling emboldened by their support, forgotten temporarily was his anger with Griff and his apprehension at trusting these new men to protect him.

This day would be that on which the entirety of this life would hinge not only because of the events on the plain or within the Round Hall of Storm’s End, but because of that particular brand of boldness those events had instilled within him. It had been enough for him to consider Rowan’s words, to seek Arya out and meet on her high upon the wall overlooking Shipbreaker Bay. Aegon could never have anticipated in that moment that his past and his future would be tightly bound around a singular, simple fragment of time.

 _“No matter what the chroniclers write, there will be those of us who know the part you played here_. _There must be some way for me to thank you beyond releasing you in the wilds.”_

_“I fancy a ride tomorrow, to test my arm.”_

But Aegon didn’t want her to ride, he didn’t want her to leave. Instead, he wanted to her confess some unknown desire to remain. Later, he would realize there was no conceivable reason for him to do as he did, but the boldness of the evening swirled with a few servings of ale compelled him beyond reason.

And so he kissed Arya Stark.

  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> Sorry it's been so long! I had to write a dissertation, had to interview for jobs, had to move across an ocean, had to start a job etc. etc. But thank you all for returning, and for any new readers, and for all of your support! 
> 
> I'm not adding a new preview, last chapter's will have to suffice (because I completely revamped this chapter multiple times and ended up excluding it) :)
> 
> Comments are always encouraged, and thank you again for reading!


	9. Arya VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya counts to three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here she is! Another long one to potentially make up for the wait? Who knew no longer being a lazy student takes up so much of your time. Thank you so much to everyone who waited for the last chapter and for this one, and who left feedback. It makes writing this all very rewarding!
> 
> This was a whirlwind to write, and quite possibly will be a whirlwind to read. Watch out! 
> 
> (It starts off directly where the last chapter ended)

 

 

_And all of it was real / it was something far too good to feel_

-The Japanese House, somethingfartoogoodtofeel

 

 

 

In that moment, Arya believed it was something she could never have anticipated. But that reflection included a significant invention of reality to herself, a constructed lie which told her no part of her wanted it.

She had fancied a ride, she was imagining the feel of a horse beneath her, its hooves connecting with solid ground, the sharpness of the sea’s wind across her cheeks, even the jolt that her unhealed shoulder would suffer with each gallop. And then something broke into that imagery, something which didn’t quite belong but neither felt like a full intrusion.

Arya had never kissed someone, not like this, not properly, but it didn’t take much to imagine what one might do to reciprocate, and her own lips parted slightly with the pressure of Aegon’s on them. She found herself thinking of that force, how pleasant it was despite being uninvited, how soft yet firm Aegon’s mouth was, and she was acutely aware of his hand gripping somewhere between her neck and jaw and the hesitancy within than grip. In the blink of a moment this all occurred, her hand – her right hand – felt the need to grasp at something as well, as if to ground her in the moment, and somehow her hand had planted itself on Aegon’s hip.

“Gods!”

Aegon leapt backwards, away from her touch. His eyes, a bit glossy with the influence of ale, were widened with fear, and he was glancing between Arya and his hip, his hands outstretched as if asking her a question.

“What?” Arya had to ask, feeling her face contort in confusion and doing her very best not to reveal anything beyond annoyance. It was difficult to ignore the pulsing along her lips and the touch of dryness in her mouth. “You’re the one who started it!”

“I thought –” Aegon started, breathing heavily while glancing down at his hip again. Then he sighed, a heavy sigh which made his body heave and his hands retreat to his side. “I thought you might kill me for a moment.”

“ _What?_ ” Arya repeated, her voice rising, eyebrows knitting and nose scrunching so much her face seemed to hurt.

And then Aegon was laughing, a breathy laugh. Short waves of pale golden hair which had grown longer in these past weeks danced around his head and he turned back to the parapet of the wall, slapping a hand against it. “What better time to do it? Gods, no. I thought – do you realize how terrifying you are?”

“What in the hells are you on about? You realized I’d have done it by now if I wanted to? I wouldn’t need to _seduce_ you to get close enough to stick a knife in your gut. And if I wanted to kill you I wouldn’t stick a knife in your gut.”

“Seduce me?” Aegon laughed again, running a hand over his jaw and rolling his dark eyes at the night sky. The torches along the wall barely wavered, glowing strong in the night to highlight each of Aegon’s actions. The air was shockingly still around them, more so than Arya had ever experienced it to be, as if it stood sentinel to watch the two interact. “Seven above, was Rowan right?”

For a kiss with a prince – or king – an unexpected and increasingly unwelcome one, Arya found her body roiling with anger more than she thought anyone else in the situation might.

_Why did I let him do that? Maybe I should’ve knifed him._

“What does your golden lord have to do with this?”

“He knows who you are! He’s met your mother and your sister and he considered that you might’ve found your way to Storm’s End intentionally, and now you’re speaking of _seducing me_ …”

There was little to do but turn away and start for the never-ending steps back to the distant ground. Aegon had rarely made mention of her family, he had the sense not to consider the enmity between them, and it hurt further to hear that a man was in their midst who had seen both Sansa and their mother more recently than Arya had. _I came all the way up here for this?_

“No. Arya,” Aegon called after her and she sensed his footfalls following, though he had the self-awareness not to grab at her, perhaps still fearing for his life. “I know you’re not that sort of girl. It was ridiculous for me to suggest. I’ve just – you’ve put my head in a fucking knot. One moment I’m wishing you’d choose to stay and then next I’m fearful you’ll murder me. What sort of person has that kind of power?”

Power? Power was not something Arya had felt she had since Winterfell, and any semblance of it was fleeting when it did come. To have power over a man – a boy, she wasn’t sure honestly – who had just commanded tens of older men to embarrass themselves on a field for his own sake was beyond comprehension.

“You want me to stay?” Arya asked, turning now, unable to help the grin now pressing on her lips. Part of her was tingling with pleasure at knowing her influence, another part was growing tense as she attempted to navigate the implications of his words.   

“Yes, I’ve just said it,” Aegon sighed again while wiping at his forehead.

“You know I won’t.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you do this?”

Something Arya had learned in all of her time across many kingdoms was the inability of young men to find their tongues when pressed for the truth, even if they were not liars. It could be like watching an osprey flap about with a wriggling fish in its clutch; Aegon shrugged and sank against the wall for support, and then propped himself up only to exhale and moan again without finding an answer. At last, he allowed a groan to rip from his throat.

“Because I wanted to, alright? And because you’ve remained this long when you could’ve run off a thousand times. And you… you kissed me back.”

She had kissed him back, but the reasoning behind it was becoming murkier by the second.

 “I’m riding in the morning,” she regarded him once more. “And once my shoulder moves enough that I’ll not be murdered for it, I’m going north.”

She didn’t allow time to watch his expression, her face was hot and likely red with something. _Rage? No. Embarrassment?_ Surprising herself, there was little of that. It didn’t feel wrong, or right. It just was.

Aegon said nothing, made no further move to pursue her. At the top of the narrow, endless steps Arya paused.

“Don’t let Rowan near me. I don’t want to hear a word about my mother or sister from him.”

***

The bolt had ripped through muscle and tendons to lodge itself in the thinnest section of bone on her shoulder blade. Had the man been her height, shooting straight rather than down, it might’ve cleared the bone, Haldon might’ve sawed off the barbed end without having to force it through her body and out the other side. She was ill the days following, not because of any sort of infection, but because of the horrific twinge that rippled down her neck, across her chest, through her arm, around her back as her tissues strained to work.

It had been the only time she heeded a maester’s commands, mostly because she was too fearful to injure it further and prolong her time in the Stormlands. Haldon of course insisted she not strain it in any manner for weeks to come, but she didn’t have weeks. Winter might’ve settled in further north, and she found her resolve to travel often waned when she huddled near the hearth here at Storm’s End with a full belly and a comfortable bed.

The bone hadn’t knitted itself back together yet. _Knitting_. It’s how the half-maester had described it, and knitting made her think of stitching and stitching made her think of Sansa and Sansa, wherever she might be if she were alive, make Arya long for Winterfell. She knew she couldn’t return, not now, not any time in the near future, but destroying the Freys would be a means of doing so. It is what had put Walder Frey on her list, and what drove her as warmth and comfort overtook her while the sea’s fierce winds battered the keep from outside.

No matter, she discarded the sling that had held her arm and moved her arm below the shoulder gingerly as Haldon had instructed she do from time to time. She would have to hold the reins with one hand.

Lemore and Duck caught her on her way to the stables just before sunrise, evidently placed along her path at Aegon’s request.

“You don’t have a horse,” Duck reminded her as they trudged across the yard. It was rather silent around, most men likely asleep or recovering from the previous night’s festivities. Despite his buoyant attitude, Duck took his role rather seriously and always seemed to be awake and aware when he was needed, even if it was to limp alongside Arya in attempts to dissuade her from riding.

She wondered if Aegon had told the two that he kissed Arya, but then doubted it. No man would want to admit something that ended so gracelessly for each party.

“I was going to get one,” Arya nearly growled.

“How?” Duck asked, somehow keeping pace with her despite his leg. Lemore followed behind, scoffing and chuckling appropriately.

“Ask for one. I’m going to ride, there’s little either of you can do to stop me.”

“Oh, we’re not stopping you,” Lemore said as they near the inactive structure where three snoring men were slumped against the wall. “We’re joining you.”

“I can outride each of you. How does it look, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard ordered to follow around a mere girl rather than the King?”

It was easiest to prod at Duck, Arya had learned quickly that Lemore had a resolve made of Valyrian steel, that little made her squirm. Duck frowned and then barked for the stable hands, asleep within the stables, to bring the horses.

“He has two others now to watch him. He can spare me.”

If Duck had any stronger qualms against being assigned to Arya, he made no indication. He and Lemore, an astute rider herself, did their very best to keep up with Arya that morning, and those that followed. Rarely would she be without either as her shadow, and on alternating mornings, following their rides either north or south along the coast, Duck would train with Arya in that same secluded yard, his leg attempting to heal in tandem with her shoulder.

Rarely did Arya see Aegon in the days following _that_ night. She never asked after Aegon, but her two companions thought it reasonable to inform her each day that he and all others were busy plotting their final movements through the Stormlands. The most recent conundrum appeared to be that though Tarth had been taken weeks ago, it had since reclaimed by the islanders, and Aegon’s forces could not be reasonably split in three directions.

Some evenings when she didn’t go to the Round Hall with Lemore for food, Arya would lay half asleep and encourage the cats to reach the solars and chambers of the important men about the keep, but found many locked doors in their path that no amount of lamentable mewing could coax open. When frustration moved her own feet she would find herself in the kitchen speaking with maids and cooks and all hands who ran the castle, gleaning information and opinions as she could. 

While she may not have learned of the latest schemes with which Aegon would be vaulted to the throne, common threads made themselves known to Arya over time. Many liked this boy-prince-king, many disliked his advisors from the solemn Griff to boastful Harry and unnerving Lysono. All felt they could not grow too close, lest Storm’s End fall into new hands once again with a simple turn of the tides, and the cycle of disorder begin anew.

***

The letter came on a rare night she went to the Round Hall without Lemore; word had it all those involved in planning and moving had settled on an order of operations. Every night vast arrays of food were laid out for up to fifty men who Aegon feasted with each evening in an attempt to better know the men in his camps. Lemore was always welcome, and by extension Arya. Those who didn’t suspect her still thought her a student of some sort, others who did wear expressions of curiosity said little, and she hadn’t caught Rowan so much as looking in her direction. Aegon might have sent on her warning.

Aegon didn’t not sit on the dais or permit anyone a seat at the high table, instead he sat in the middle of one of three stretching tables laid out in the hall. When Lemore was present, Arya would sit with the septa at the same table as the Targaryen prince, but otherwise she sat with her back to him, often in the middle table. It was easiest to hear him from there.

Haldon had entered the hall with a number of scrolls in hand, Griff waving him over; perhaps they’d not had the chance to read any earlier in the day.

There was a scuffling of papers on the wooden table top, a quietening around Aegon.

“Anything urgent?” asked Griff.

“Not particularly,” Haldon said. “Though there are a few items of interest. You seem – occupied, would you prefer me to read them out, Your Grace?”

“Summarize them, if you would, Haldon,” Aegon said. “I’ll fall asleep hearing Chains’ ramblings from the Rainwood.”

“Nothing from the Rainwood. The first from Mooton,” Haldon said, settling into a seat that was dragged over to him. Arya bowed her head over her plate as she chewed to make it seem she was listening less intently than she was. “Thinks it might be best to begin sending men to increase the network.”

More shuffling of paper.

“My mistake. Chains did write, though for you Strickland. No additional elephants, only the five and they’re running out of means to feed them. Say the animals don’t fancy the greens on this side of the sea.”

Five elephants. Arya nearly laughed, she had learned the man had a dozen or more and that many had gone missing on the journey over. Who thought to transport the beasts? She had never seen one, but came across their likeness on pottery and tapestries in her time in Braavos and had heard some speak of their large physique. Perhaps they might tear down a wall or trample foe, but Arya couldn’t think of an advantage they’d offer far beyond that.

“Letters for Lord Farring coming still, I suppose Tyrell’s not made it known that he has the castellan and not the castle.”

A low rumble of laughter went around the table behind her and those listening from other tables. Lord Farring, wherever he might be, seemed to bring amusement to any conversation; Arya had learned that he reacted comically to the initial invasion of the Golden Company into Storm’s End.

“Any word from the Vale?” Griff asked.

_The Vale?_ Arya wondered if Griff somehow believed he’d have the touch which would bring her sickly cousin and his men down from the mountains and send aid when they hadn’t for their own blood.

“None,” Haldon said. “The delays we seemed to have with ravens seems somewhat cleared, we received word, for Farring, from the Wall. The date shows it was delayed considerably less than previous communications being sent by Stannis Baratheon. Though surprisingly, this does not come from him.”

“No? Has he left?”

“Unsure. It is from a steward, likely something sent across the realm. Though I expect news of this sort is usually sent following the election, not prior to it.”

Few seemed to be following, but Arya cared more than she had when the Vale was mentioned. Word from the Wall. From where Jon was. Even if he didn’t write such a letter, or know of Aegon, or believed Arya married to a Bolton, he was at the Wall and she was here and it was a connection she could not ignore.

A sign to travel north as she planned.

“The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch is dead, a new one is to be elected shortly," Haldon read from the scroll.

Arya's heart shuddered to a frozen stop.

"Fucking mess that is," Flowers, next to Aegon grumbled. "Whole north's in shambles, will be ripe for the taking when it comes to it.”

Lord Commander. Dead.

The immediate reaction was to wonder if in fact the news she had heard long ago of Jon becoming Lord Commander was indeed true. If it was false, if she had imagined it, then this would not matter.

But Arya knew it to be true. She knew lies and she knew truths.

“It wasn’t that Targaryen fellow was it?” Strickland asked.

“Aemon Targaryen? No. He was a maester, not Lord Commander. We were told he passed months ago,” Aegon said, a touch of sadness in his voice.

_No. Its Jon. Jon Snow. My brother Jon. He’s the one that’s dead._

Arya had to plant her feet in the stone of the ground not to turn and ask to read the scroll, to ask how the Lord Commander had died, when it was dated.

Jon. Jon cold and blue and bloating… _at least he might be afforded a burial of sorts …_ But the idea of Jon being buried, of Jon no longer living, of the breath leaving his lips as breath had left so many that Arya had seen to herself… it was too much and she rose too quickly, bumping the table and sending half-filled goblets scattering and cutlery rolling and candles toppling.

_Jon_. _No._ Her heart seemed to be pressing out the thoughts in her mind, each hurt like a stab with a dull blade, not sharp enough to pierce but enough to bruise, and deeply and perpetually so that her lungs had all of the air forced from them.

_Jon._

Somehow she was outside of the hall. Partway down the empty stairwell her feet ceased, her mind was too overcome to remind them to move.

Memories of Jon were difficult to reach, memories of him as he was and not as she imagined all these years. It had been so long and yet it was a hurt worse than any other, even when she’d been so close when half of the others had died. Perhaps the distance was what made it so unbearable. At times when thinking of little Bran and Rickon murdered as they were by Theon her body was tender with grief, but this was different. It felt that her bones had left her entirely, disintegrated and scattered like ash in a funeral pyre.

They must burn them up north. The ground would be too cold to dig.

Her image of Jon changes from the blue throes of death to the astringent itchy scent of burning flesh and charred bone. She’d learned once how to identify how long bone had been burned and how hot it was. Why she had learned it, Arya could no longer recall. But she wondered how long they might burn Jon and how hot the flames might be.

_They_. In her mind there were others with him, but there was the possibility he might have been alone. Jon, Jon would not die of an illness or an ailment though.

After a few moments of whirring, toxic thoughts of how Jon might’ve found his end her mind grew blank and numb as her rear that had been resting on the cold stone of the stairs. Above her the sconces flickered, but there was no movement and it felt her heart might’ve stopped too. There were no tears, there so rarely were.

_Jon_. _No. Not you_. _Not you too._

A new grief began to form when her thoughts turned to Winterfell, and that last she’d seen of Jon. Needle. She had Needle, the last bond they’d shared. If she had Nymeria still, if Jon had had Ghost, if Ghost was still alive Arya wondered if she might go running with them. She wondered if she’d not been brought to Storm’s End if she might’ve found Nymeria and thus found Ghost and found Jon even in her dreams. But it was only another connection brutally severed, another reminder of all the wrought strings she had grounded her snapping in surprise or unravelling with her own efforts to distance the reality of who she was and what she had lost.

“Would you like company to your rooms, my lady?”

It was a voice Arya did not know well but recognized somewhat, and one that had asked the question a number of times while maintaining distance.

All she could manage was a shake of her head. She didn’t want to look. In that moment she never wanted to see someone else if it wasn’t Jon. The idea of seeing anyone but him, but dealing with any interaction was exhausting and she wondered if she would ever make it back to her rooms, let alone the Riverlands and the North.

“The King asked me to see that you were well.”

_Webber_. The Kingsguard chosen and doing his duty to his king. Did he know who she was, had his former Lord Rowan spread the word? She thought at first when Aegon met with Webber and Rivers that Webber might only be a set of eyes for Rowan, but the man was true to his word. The idiocy of spending her time here, of helping Aegon, even of watching Webber and Rivers fight those days ago was sickening. Why had she been here when Jon had been dying or already dead?

“Tell _the King_ I’ll never be well again.”

_Aegon should know_ , she thought. He prided himself on his knowledge of the land he’d been denied and he’d be a fool not to know Jon was Lord Commander and that Jon was her brother, Ned Stark’s famed bastard.

_It doesn’t matter_ , she reminded herself. Aegon didn’t matter, none of this mattered. Nothing could ever be right again.

How could she live with any sort of meaning if they were all gone, even Jon who had stayed far from this war? If Yoren hadn’t been killed, if the Brotherhood and the Hound hadn’t done as they did she might have made it to Jon.

_You ran_.

_But I came back_.

_It’s too late._

_***_

“Is there a godswood here?”

It was strange that she hadn’t thought of it yet, and she knew that Storm’s End must have a heart tree because Lyanna was meant to have lived here. Of course she never knew her aunt, but she had not been schooled the same as Arya and Sansa, and Arya thought Lyanna might’ve refused living where there was not one.

And yet Lyanna died in a southern desert without the slightest northern comfort.

The staff she had asked, having somehow travelled to the kitchens, mostly stared. It was the brewer who answered, a middle aged woman with strong arms and thick dark hair pulled back in a knot. Rulla, Arya had learned her name. Never had they questioned her or her presence, accepting her as another strange person in a motley cast of characters parading through these people’s home.

“The witch burned it down, but its base is still there. I thought you might be one of those tree-loving northerners,” Rulla said while rolling an empty cask past Arya, one meant for the feast continuing far above them. “I never like those people-trees, but it wasn’t always so easy to miss. That overgrown bush in the southern corner, those used to be the gardens and the godswood.”

It was late into the evening, possibly the morning, Arya couldn’t be sure how long she’d wandered and sat and begged herself to cry if only to do something. So she took a torch in her right hand and made off to the corner of the promontory she’d explored previously but not with any sort of knowledge. It was unclear what she wanted from this, what she might do, what she could do. But doing something… she must. Some people might sit around and grieve but she’d found it simpler to be active, to be combatting that which had brought her low. And it would not strike her, not truly for some time. It would be best to be occupied when the lighting hit and she was felled, as least then she would not have to consider her purpose if she had set one out previously.

Maybe the weirwood would give her answers to questions she hadn’t formulated. Maybe it brought her feet closer to its ashen state rather than her own feet.

Even with her short stature the light of the torch barely graced the ground and Arya found herself walking through brambles before realizing that she hit the former gardens. It was impossible to see how far the stretched, where the godswood might be, where it all ended and the imposing wall blocking it all from the sea began. Needle went into her left hand, and though gripping it made her entire arm and into her neck ache, it felt as it must be when she prodded and whacked at the overgrown and dying bits of the garden.

Needle was her piece of Jon. And it hurt. It all hurt so much.

She found an area that was walled with rotted trees, hollow and weak with no leaves and fallen branches and beyond that was the weirwood. It stood just above Arya’s height rather than at tower lengths above her, and its scorched body appeared more as a silhouette in the darkness than the pale moonlight shade it might emit out when strong and healthy.

Something caught her foot as the tree drew her closer, perhaps a fallen charred branch, and she hit the ground, her right hand catching her but slicing along something sharp. She couldn’t see the blood, but she could feel its slick stickiness in her palm, and smell the stringent iron after a few moments. Needle had slipped from her hand, was difficult to grip but she held it no matter and moved until she was near enough to touch the weirwood.

There was a pull, though Arya knew it must only be her head. She longed for home, more now than she could recall, even more than when she had fled Braavos, more than when she’d left in the first place. The weirwood knew somehow, and it coaxed her in the darkness with a voice as quiet as the night around her.  It didn’t say anything in particular, only that she must go closer and not in so many words.

“I know who he was.”

Whipping around, Arya saw that it was the wrong Jon, the one with the icy eyes which always fell on her as though she offended him with her mere existence. Which she supposed she did.  

She didn’t question Connington, because she had a thousand things to ask. He had never sought her privately, never deigned to acknowledge her after the day of the battle. And now here, in a space that might be her own amongst the roughness of Storm’s End, he intruded. How had he followed her without her knowing?

_Because of Jon_. Her mind wasn’t clear, her senses dulled with the slow grief that had begun spindling around her heart.

“I thought you were leaving when you heard.”

“You’d have liked that,” Arya snapped.

_This is not the Jon I want!_ Perhaps the gods, whichever ones watched her, even if it was only the one she’d known the past years played her the fool. She wanted a Jon and now she had one.

“I would have,” Connington admitted with a shrug. He might’ve only own two sets of clothing, Arya had never seen him in anything but layers of leather and worn bent metal plates, and he had taken the time to wrap himself in a cloak before seeking her. “I know that the Lord Commander was your bastard brother. If what I’ve heard is true, you two were very much alike.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Arya had leaped towards him scarcely before the finals words had dropped, but Connington shot out a hand and caught Needle in her loose grip. She wasn’t going to cut him, or stab him, she didn’t know what she was going to do. She might not ever know again.

“I’ve learned as much about you and the Starks as possible since you’ve decided to stay. Jon Snow was not a Stark, but bastards never sit easy with those ruling where their fathers once were. But he’s been slain and you’re the last.”

_Slain_? The question showed on Arya’s face, she felt it fall into disbelief.

“Even you must have known Jon Snow was renowned for his skills. It is my duty to know where allies and enemies of Aegon lie, and any man so recognized even from the ends of the fucking earth is worth tracking. Aegon will think only of you, not of Jon Snow when he learns. I want your word that you will leave soon. And I want your word, that if you find yourself at Winterfell with the North at your back that you recall the concern Aegon has shown for you here.”

“The North will never bend a knee to another Targaryen. Not on my word or any other. And I’m not taking the North. There’s nothing left.”

She knew it to be true when she said it.

“You declared your intentions to seek revenge on the Freys from the night we met. You want the same for the Lannisters and for those who struck your bastard-brother down.”

 “Why are you here?” Arya asked, fed up. Perhaps it was well that they rarely interacted, and that they may never again.

“We want the same things,” Connington said in a low voice, scratching at his greying-red hair. “We want the same people dead. We both want you far from this camp. We both want to never see one another again. I’m offering what no one has before.”

Arya couldn’t see what his words meant, for a man so plain he was awfully cryptic and she was in no mood for riddles on a regular day.

“Gods, you northerners,” he scratched at his face. “The North. Your name has been floating around this camp. It will spread. When each of your enemies fall they will know who has done it. Whether you like it or not, the North will reclaim you. Against us. I’m offering you the North under Aegon’s rule. A Stark in the North and a Targaryen on the throne as it was for centuries, at peace until the rebellion. An avoidance of further bloodshed. You know he will be a good king, anyone who meets him knows it. But your people are stubborn and broken.”

She should have expected such a thing, long before this evening, long before she was the last. Even with Jon sworn to the Watch she was the last.

“The North is not mine to give nor yours to take. It has been run into the ground by those who made my family bleed, and they are still there. I want their blood now. Nothing else.”

“Then we can be of service,” Griff grinned. “When the time comes.”

“I’m leaving in two days-time,” Arya said. “It will take you two days to plan who and what to send to Maidenpool. I will be on that ship, I will return to where I was taken, and I will do what I came to Westeros to do.”

Griff gave a pause, perhaps considering his next words, but thankfully decided on none and departed. The final expression he gave Arya made her feel that she was being studied, that the man thought he might’ve cracked her like a nut only to discovered she was a stone.

The weirwood hadn’t given up on its mystic communication, the air bringing the message alike the smoke that would have once billowed from its burning bark to those standing near. With her bloody hand she touched it.

Arya had images of the Wall in her mind from Old Nan’s stories, but she was seeing _the Wall_ now. Scraping the sky at endless heights, shining blue in its pure icy light. It felt blurred, disconnected like a wolf dream yet her blood was cool rather than pumping and hot and her teeth chattered rather than ached for something to sink into.

“ _Arya?”_ A snap of cold air slapped at her face, though her name was less than a whisper.

She pulled back, and the blue cold of the North was swallowed by the black sea-stenched air of the south.

_There is only one god. And his name is Death_ , she tried to remind herself. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe. _No. You’ve imagined this all. The old gods were silent when the others were slain, they would not speak now with Jon’s death._

If it were a message from a half-dead weirwood on a promontory over a salty tumultuous sea, then it was nothing more than a confirmation of what she already knew. For each name she seemed to cross from her list in Braavos, new ones were added. First the Freys. And whoever had ended Jon’s life at the Wall. Her original path, the one she’d set herself on after fleeing King’s Landing as a child, was the one she’d been meant to take.

***

Sorrow had a tendency of gnawing. Arya found that she was used to burying or forgetting it briefly, especially if she was able to make herself busy or, as it was when she was younger, have little time to dwell on it. Eventually she had to sleep, and when she woke from broken dreams she had forgotten why her body was suddenly a shell with nothing but a void within. Her stomach ached, though not as it did when one ate something poor, but almost the raw roiling that came with desperate hunger. But she wasn’t hungry. How could she eat knowing what she did?

No sooner had she acknowledged the physical aspects of what she suspected would be eternal suffering, then Lemore walked into Arya’s chambers, unannounced and unwelcome. Arya was already curled into herself hoping maybe if she remained still enough the world might pass her by or she would have some sort of revelation about Jon’s end.

There had to be someone. There had to be something. Connington had said the word _slain_. He spoke of the unease that came with a dead man’s surviving bastards. Perhaps someone in the north had heard she was alive, they had come to know the other Arya Stark was an imposter. And so they finished Jon, because evidently not finishing Starks at different points in time had proved problematic.

She forgot for a brief moment that Lemore had entered, becoming lost in her wild thoughts, until the septa set a tray down on the small table sat in the corner across from Arya’s bed.

“I’ll have someone light the hearth. Drink this tea, it will help you rest until you wish to move.”

The woman knew, that much was clear. Which meant that Aegon knew, and Duck and of course Rowan would have known already. People would know and she didn’t want the withering pitying look of someone regarding her as though she were a fallen petal from a perfectly formed flower.

Lemore removed herself from the chambers when Arya gave no response.

As time passed Arya considered her future, Connington’s offer. She never wanted Winterfell, she never wanted to be a ruler and to tell others what to do or have anyone so much as call her a lady. There was no desire to round up the broken kingdom and piece the bits back together, because it would never fit, there would always be chinks missing.

At some point in the day, a pale white light streaming from her high windows, Aegon entered as easily as Lemore had. Arya curled from the flat position she had relaxed into, and faced the wall. Her body, her arm and neck still ached with the slightest movement but she was past caring about healing properly.

“There’s so much… I have many questions, and I know you won’t answer them easily if at all.”

Aegon took the liberty of seating himself at the same table Lemore had set the tea upon, smacking his lips as though he’d sipped it.

“Not very good cold. Foremost, I’m sorry for your brother, for his death, for your family. It occurred to me I should be happy that you, and perhaps your sister, are the remaining Starks, that the others are gone. But I can’t be. I’ve found I cannot blame your father for seeking out his missing sister, because if my sister had lived and I thought her stolen I would do as he did. Were he alive now I imagined I’d eat these words, but it feels quite distant even with Griff reminding me every other instant of the day.

"I felt, _hatred_ I suppose, at the idea of Starks all my childhood. But your brothers never raised a hand against Targaryens, and you’ve… well you’ve been a great help to say the least and it seems unreasonable to hold grudges for those who came before when I’m trying to take back a kingdom and unite it for all its difference. More frankly, if I were to worry about all past alliances and enmity between Targaryens and others I’d not have time to take back Westeros at all.”

There were no questions in his words, and Arya remained with her back to him. She had thought little about their family names, the past because as he said, it was something neither had experienced themselves, and perhaps enough wrong had been done unto them by others it hardly mattered any longer.

“Of all the things I’ve wanted to ask, there is one that I cannot think of an explanation for, at least not a clear one. Why leave? Why train in Braavos only to return here? I’ve been told that Faceless Men can change their entire appearance at whim, that they don’t require a knife and potion and a mask. They don’t travel as they please and kill as they please.”

He seemed to be rambling somewhat, and to stop him from continuing down an intolerable path Arya cut across.

“What is your question?”

“Are you truly a Faceless Man?”

_No_ , was the simple response. She could explain it all, how she only received part of the training, and did miserably with some of it, how she could not truly give herself up for the sake of it all. But she knew more of them than most, and from time to time she wondered if she might be killed for it, though she had nothing to gain by spreading their secrets, the few that she did know.

“I wasn’t a good student,” she said, coaxing herself from the wall and rising into a seated position, knees tucked to her check with her arms carefully wrapped around them. Still, her left shoulder protested and she had to allow it to rest at her side.

Aegon sat in one of the rickety chairs at the corner table, and having turned it so his back was to the wall was facing her head on. His right leg rested on his left knee, and he leaned with such casual grace it made Arya feel oddly at ease.

“That’s not wholly surprising.”

“I did things I wasn’t supposed to. The Mountain’s man, the one I told you about… people who wronged those I cared for here were turning up in Braavos. So I killed them as they came.”

“Then you fled.”

“I thought it was a stupid position for me to be in. Why wait for them in a place where I would be punished for it. I tried to be different, someone else entirely and yet everything followed me,” Arya explained, looking more at the floor just over her knees than at Aegon. There was a sense of failure within it all, that while she was just _a girl_ , or Mercy, or Cat there was never a way to truly release Arya. Others had done it, all Faceless Men had. And yet she could not.

“Did you know then, when you left, what you would do?”

Arya shook her head, shock rippling over her shoulder and she hissed. “No,” she said instead. “I have a list still. But there were things I couldn’t ignore any longer, those who killed my mother and brother. I didn’t have _a name_. I spent my journey thinking on how to avenge them, and the north, all through one person. It must only be one, one name. It’s too much otherwise. I knew I can’t possibly kill all the Freys. But I thought with enough extra work killing one might do. So I added Walder Frey to my list because I found he was the one who turned entirely, who offered guest rights and ripped them away, though he never bloodied his hands.”

The prince-king studied her with his dark eyes, and in the shifting silhouettes of the fire a shadow that passed over Aegon's face and darkened it as he moved his jaw in contemplation. For a moment, a blink she saw Jon in the angle of his jaw and cheeks, the slope of his nose and the arch of his brows.

“What?” He asked, concerned.

“You looked like –” Arya started, and then he was entirely Aegon again, and she recalled suddenly that they had kissed and she shook the image of Jon from her head, though she wanted to keep it. “Is that all you came for then? I’ve answered your question.”

“I –” It was Aegon’s turn to shake away an errant idea from his head. “I thought I might offer words of comfort, but I don’t know any. Lemore told me when I was younger that I might not be so sad about not having my family if I was able to remember the short time I had with them and how they cared for me. I suppose – what I mean is that I hope you can remember them that way. Maybe it will help you to keep a clear head for your journey.”

The play of her childhood was a detached dream to Arya, none of it seemed that it had been real, almost like it had been part of an entirely different life.  

“Do you miss them?” Arya asked.

Aegon shifted so his leg came to the floor and he looked ready to stand, and he spoke with a renewed casual grace. “Not often now. I missed the concept of them when I was young. And I’d like a bit of advice from a Targaryen now and again, though neither my grandfather nor father might’ve been the best to offer it as it was.”

And then he rose with a sigh as though it were a difficult task.

“You were right. A ship will leave to Maidenpool in two days, and there is space for you on it. It’d be amiss of me after all you’ve done to send you up the Kingsroad and not by ship. Duck was disappointed to miss your morning spar, but he’ll meet you tonight if you wish.”

Arya didn’t wish it. Instead, the half dead weirwood drew her back that night, and she wondered how on earth something so ruined was the nearest thing she’d felt to peace in years. With the silence broken between her and Aegon, with the knowledge of Jon’s death stewing within her, Arya found she didn’t want to be in the keep or near any of her Storm’s End companions.

While it had drawn her in, the tree of her homeland offered nothing more than a strange, looming sense of protection as she sat beneath its ruin, a canopy of broken limbs above and collapsed around her. No touch made it speak as it had, what she was hoping for Arya was unsure. Another glimpse at the Wall? Perhaps a trace of Jon? A telling that he might be alive, that there was something for her in the north.

She remembered the blood, and it was simple enough to reopen the cut that she’d sustained the previous night. Pressing her hand to the base of the tree she was pulled in once more, only for a moment.

_Nymeria_.

The pace was unforgettable, even after all of these years. The pulsating muscles down hind and fore-quarters, the smell of soil turned up by the impact of countless eager paws. Trees. Trees and underbrush that caused no hindrance.

_This isn’t the north_ , Arya thought, somehow still herself.

_This is_ , another voice breathed through the air around her.

Pain. But not her own… Nymeria’s. And not from anything tangible, but instead something that spurted through her chest and her blood, and then into Arya’s. Death. It felt like death, consuming and dim but neither of them were dying. Nymeria crowed with anguish, Arya could not see anything now except a deep blue light around her and the bitter cold that had come when she saw the wall.

Then flashes of silver, warmth and yellow eyes broken with pain.

_This is the north. This is what they’ve done. This is what will come._

The voice was not audible but instead something she knew without hearing, and it was a voice she could recognized but not name. She wondered if it might be Jon, if she’d truly forgotten how he sounded, but she knew it wasn’t. There was a lightness, an aloofness that Jon could never have had for all of his burdens.

_There’s nothing more_.

And then it ended, and she was in the shattered godswood in the darkness of the eastern night.

On her final evening she returned, it was impossible to stay away and yet in the day she managed knowing that the tree might not give her what she wished. It had to be dark, and calm, she knew this because it had to be the same with the cats. It was all the same, this seeing, and it was how she knew that what the weirwood showed her was real.

Even the reality of Aegon’s army amassing to take the remaining Stormlands, the bustle of the keep, her impending journey back to Maidenpool, none of it felt as real as what the tree had shown her. Nymeria’s suffering had matched her own. Maybe it would have been best not to put herself in such a position, but Arya had never been one to consider what might be best for her own well-being.

A bloodied hand was laid on the tree, and yet nothing came. Her fingers scraped against the crumbling charred bark as if they could dig for the voice that had some from within its heart. It was always difficult to understand how intensely she wanted the restore connection to her homeland until it was denied.

Had it been in her head? Had she longed for Jon, for a memory of him, to see some semblance of the north that she built it all to cope with knowing it was all lost. It was likely she might be going mad, grief did that to many people and it was a wonder she’d not turned earlier.

A shifting in the bramble behind her told Arya that she was no longer alone.

“What will happen after?”

It wasn’t necessary to turn to the intruder, it was Aegon of course, though at this hour she hadn’t anticipated he would seek her out. It was quite settled that she would leave the next morning, that anything to do with their strange friendship here would be forgotten the moment she made for the ships that would take her to Maidenpool.

“After what?” she asked without turning, speaking more to the tree still against in her splayed palm. 

“The killing. After you’ve ended your enemies and painted the lands red with their blood as you’ve promised yourself.”

_What comes after?_ The House of Black and White had been part of the solution, she thought. It might have become her entire way of life, the only thing she knew, a world where Arya Stark was gone and anything to do with the girl had eroded into irrelevancy.

“Doesn’t matter,” Arya decided, finding it was true. What was there in the world if not this? If no Jon? If not something tangible to return to?

Aegon began approaching, so she rose to face him before he could come too close. She wanted distance for more reasons than she could name. He held a torch and was illuminated in orange, looking rather ominous in the pitch of the night around them, only the faint glow of the keep far behind. The stars and moon had been obscured with thick clouds from the moment the sun had set, Arya found it fitting the dreariness was returning in full.

“You’re wrong,” he said, vow low in a half-whisper. His movement towards her was purposeful and he ignored any sort of silent warning she had put out for him to keep his distance. “It does matter. You were… you can’t have always been this way. There must be something for you after.”

Arya found her face crunching together in distaste. “You’d do well to realize that you don’t know me, Your Highness. _It doesn’t matter_. It barely matters that I do this, but I’m going to regardless. And after this it doesn’t matter, any reason I had for anything has been taken away. I wasn’t this way, but any other life was stolen from me the moment I was told I’d leave Winterfell. You can’t trulybelieve your life will be what it once was? You think you might find something better once you’ve taken that throne and are crowned a true king?”

The prince’s face was still as she spoke, though one of his cheeks moved from within as though he chewed on it to keep from spitting words back at her. After a moment of consideration passing between them both, Aegon spoke.

“You think there’s nothing because your brother’s died. You think you can get revenge for that too, when it might’ve been some errant wildling in the night who’s run off back into the snow. You think… no. You _don’t think_. _You don’t see_. Your mind is narrow as a damned needle, Arya. There’s no reason for you to have a singular path as the fucking harbinger of death”

She released a bark of laughter, but because of his unintentional word play more than anything else.

“You don’t understand! You won’t ever understand because you’ve been off across the sea biding your time to take up your home, which still exists, with people who have supported your claim and your purpose from the moment they met you. That isn’t what I have; this is what I have! An entire family murdered and the ashes of the north scattered to the wind.”

Arya had managed to frustrate him, it pleased her to know it. Aegon was all but gripping at his face, hissing from behind his hands.

“Have you thought, for one moment, that I might understand? Yes, I have had what I did, I would have had it no matter. You had that as well and you lost it. You and thousands of others. And I’m on the verge, Arya. I could lose everything, just as you have,” Aegon was speaking with vigor, gesticulating with his hands which had pulled from his face and his voice rising to the verge of hysterics. “Now I’m sounding the fool. I’m attempting to explain… you’re not alone. Or, you don’t have to be. You don’t have to make your life as difficult as it is and yet you do. I don’t know why, but it’s as if you’re punishing yourself for fates beyond your control. And if you opened your mind for half of a breath you’d realize you can have a future beyond coercing yourself into constant misery.”

“Taking revenge tends to have the opposite effect of misery,” Arya shot back through her teeth. It was a lie. There was satisfaction, of course. Always. But there were always consequences, and thus far she’d managed to evade them to an extent. Being blinded might’ve been punishment enough, but it hadn’t stopped her from having her way with Raff the Sweetling and it wouldn’t stay her hand now. “I don’t see what you want me to say.”

“I want –”

The silver prince was stuck for words; Arya could see them on his tongue as his dark eyes searched her face for them.

“I want you to see that I care. Gods be good, how couldn’t I? Don’t you see how fucking mad you’ve driven me, to the point where I’m kissing you one moment and terrified you’ll murder me the next? And if I call you selfish for not seeing it –”

“You think I’m selfish?” The other words had passed quickly over Arya in a manner that she acknowledged to herself.

“ _You are!”_

“You shouldn’t care.”

“It’s truly a wonder you’ve made it this far without someone taking your tongue. You shouldn’t care what I do and yet you save my damned ass. You all but _founded_ my kingsguard, and each of us understands those historical implications. You feign carelessness, yet you care and it’s transformed what we believed landing back in Westeros would be. If I am to have any legacy in this country your name is scrawled across it.”

_You don’t see_. How could he see that it didn’t matter, that chaos would reign, that he might have that throne but never would it be secured, never would he find peace. Arya was becoming increasingly assured that there was nothing but turmoil ahead, and not only for herself. In any world that would see Jon murdered, there could never be appeasement.

“You think I’m selfish?”

“You’ve decided to hold onto that?” Aegon seemed to deflate, his shoulders falling with his chest and his chin as he shook his head. And then something invigorated him and he stepped to close the distance and then clasped the upper part of her right arm in a firm, cold grip. “I should be thankful you’re leaving. I won’t have to spend half my time trying to unpiece you, perhaps I’ll get my head out of this fucking knot you’ve twisted it into.”

The grip was not forceful enough for Arya consider pulling away; instead it had a similar draw that the weirwood had. So as Aegon released her arm, Arya caught his with her newly free hand and pressed herself close.

Something primal was in her, it'd been rearing its head since she considered the forces she would give into after leaving Braavos, of releasing all restraint and sense of self preservation. Nothing mattered. Nothing felt like anything except Aegon's heat when he yelled at her. _That_ she felt. She was angry as he was. And she _was selfish_.

So she grabbed the front of his jerkin and pulled it down, but he'd been taken over by the same instinct and was colliding against her with one hand on her back and other on her jaw. She felt him pulsing beneath her, and her own foreign desire for _something_ … To feel anything.

"I want you," he breathed against her lips, breath hot and sticky, sweet with a touch of wine.

Arya couldn't articulate what she wanted, so she nipped at him, at his soft lips until they were plied open and she kissed Aegon Targaryen for a second time, though it was entirely different than it had been the first.

"You're selfish," she murmured, pulling back just enough to say it onto his tongue so he could taste the words.

"I know."             

That was it, the confirmation of chaos within him as well, a dragon perhaps though she’d only seen glimpses thus far.

Somehow, they entered the castle with Aegon going ahead to ward off his kingsguard. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she knew she wanted it, in this moment at least. If she were to never find happiness, if she were a harbinger as Aegon said, let her have this final experience of humanity.

“I’ve convinced Rivers to find Webber, except Webber’s off in the camp,” Aegon said, waiting for Arya at his doorway once she had mounted the drum towers. “I was afraid you might run off too.”

“Shut up,” Arya half growled, and Aegon pressed the door to his antechamber open with a light chuckle. She half remembered the room from her night of agony, and her shoulder cramped at the memory and when she paused for a moment, Aegon took her wrist and coaxed her into his true chambers.

Before she could look around, for her curiosity was not entirely overruled by the hungry thrumming in her bones, Aegon had leaned down into her again, kissing her fully, enveloping all the remaining attention she might have for anything else.

_Three_ , Arya managed to note.

There was no point in counting she soon learned. She half expected Aegon to shirk away from what was inevitable, but was relieved to see that he cared as little for the consequences as she did, and had the same lack of fear for the unknown ahead. Their mouths parted only for pieces of clothing that had to be dragged overhead, though then Aegon showed care, wary of Arya’s injury and slowing his eager fingers to pull her shirt-sleeves off in a comfortable manner.

“I’m just realizing you nearly died,” he panted, a hand above her bare breast near the half healed wound.

“They were only doing their job,” Arya said, impatient, unwilling to think of anything but the situation before her lest her mind wander to what all of her actions up until this point meant. His trousers were unlaced but still being worn, as were her own. She took control of herself then, and wrested them down over her hips to gather Aegon’s attention back. “You better not say another thing.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Aegon grinned, and in the flickering sconce light around them his eyes flashed the purple she often searched for. His dark golden brows were raised high with anticipation, and he appeared all but ready to lick his lips.

Arya hadn’t had sex before, but she’d seen what the whores of Braavos were capable of, and how they might pleasure or be pleasured. She’s also seen how they could be hurt and punish an aggressor in return. There was a confidence that though her visceral instinct was rapidly overriding her own rational judgement, she would know what to do should this silver prince attempt to take too much or too little, and so Arya felt a relative ease at the entire prospect.

Hands grazed, lips met and crashed and teeth bit while tongues flitted between teeth until suddenly Aegon’s tongue was exploring the expanses of Arya body once she’d been pressed into his bed. First his lips found the bruises along her collarbone, and then slipped down the canal between her breasts before finding each separately. And then down so he was crouching, his hands working ahead as if to ready her body. Lips at her hips, pecks sharp and soothing like snowflakes across her pelvis and then hands gripped her inner thighs and slid them away to further the opening. Each touch scorched Arya as though the heat embodied in his ancestry made to escape through his skin.

Deep indigo eyes met hers over the pale of her stomach, and then blinked in acknowledgment before disappearing below.

It took a moment to find the pleasure Aegon was offering with his tongue inside of her, but when it arrived the sensation was nothing Arya might have anticipated, a tightening down her pelvis, a warmth and hunger coursing with the pulses of her blood. Her body sang for him and Aegon accepted the rhythm, adding his own choruses so that Arya was coiling up in ways that made her left arm ache and her hands fist into the light curls of his silvery hair.

Aegon’s body, long and lean was sliding up over hers before anything could be reached, with a firm hand pressed to the side of her face he brought his lips back to hers. They were wet with her own pleasure, and the idea of it riled Arya so that she bit at Aegon’s lower lip as he meant to pull back once more. His opposite hand had been occupied, she realized, and his knees had dug into the bed to keep her legs parted. In the next breath he was inside of her, seeming to take up all of the room left in her body with such force it left Arya stunned. One hand pinned next to her head on the pillow, stabilizing Aegon as he drove into her, commanding energy from his knees and hips. His mouth fell to her collarbone and neck, nipping and kissing any stretch that might be accessible.

Before the pain could dissipate into something more there was a gasp. Arya tried to look past the man heaving above her, whose cock seemed be frozen half-way into her and whose ass was up and bared to the air and whoever had been unfortunate enough to enter the room. Neither moved, yet their short, impassioned breaths echoed through the silent space.

“My apologies!”

_Haldon!_

Aegon and Arya collapsed with the recognition as the door shut with the half-maester retreated. Whatever climax had been mounting through Arya’s body dissipated, and Aegon pulled out of her with a noise much wetter than anticipated.

“Fuck,” he breathed, clamouring off of Arya with his face contorting in a grimace. “I need –”

“Seriously?”

“You’d like to lay there like a wet rag while I finish in you, Arya?” Aegon nearly barked, his voiced rather with a gritting frustration. Somehow his feet found the floor and he hobbled off to the privy just off the chamber as Arya found herself bubbling with laughter at the absurdity of it all. How had the wolfishness within which drove to kill make her so reckless beneath a man?

After a few moments there was a groan and a slap from the privy. Aegon returned a moment later, walking without shame in his naked state, moving Arya to realized that she was utterly undeterred by the sight of it, and by the bareness of her own. He moved to a long rectangular side table on the far left wall, adjacent to the hearth which burned lowly from earlier in the evening.

Wine was brought to her in the bed, Arya thought Aegon might hear the thundering of her heart and blood as he grew closer.

“How long before Griff comes to end it all?” She asked, attempting to mask any disappointment that might show in her eyes or her voice.

Aegon sat in the bed next to her, leaning back into the pillows, wiping tufts of hair that hung in his face. There was an urge to move them for him, but Arya found she was able to resist. “He’ll have words once you’ve left; for me. Haldon must have thought I was gone without any watch at my door.”

Arya sipped at the wine, the bitter-sweetness of it grounding her in reality.

_I fucked Aegon Targaryen._ _Half-fucked, maybe._

“If you’re going to stay, as you’re welcome to, you’d best put something on lest I lose my damned mind,” Aegon said.

“Seems a bit one-sided,” Arya said, though shrugged and moved off the bed to find her clothing because she reckoned it might get a bit cold, and she didn’t quite know what to do with her wanting self. Emboldened by the entire series of events, she went to his wardrobe and flung open a door to find a number of basic sets of trousers and tunics and surcoats lumped and folded together. She remembered then that Aegon was a still half a boy, and though she was of the age to bear children, Arya felt a child herself at moments, half of her younger life a blur of mayhem.

It hit her then.

_Jon’s dead_.

Her right hand gripped the edge of the wardrobe’s engraved door to keep from stumbling. This had been to feel something, and Arya did, but the inevitable waves of grief crashed nearer, drowning whatever sort of wild pleasure her body had been vibrating with. Guilt. Guilt for forgetting about Jon, for allowing her mind to wander to such ideals as pleasure instead of focusing on what she might to do preserve his memory.

“I need to leave.”

“Gods,” Aegon breathed, there were sounds of him shifting on the bed. “We shouldn’t have done that. I’ve just upset you more.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Arya said, still staring into the wardrobe. Aegon was moving closer, she could sense it, yet he had the foresight to keep at a distance.

“Talk to me. I know you’re leaving in the morning regardless, that this hasn’t changed a thing, but you shouldn’t go on a ship full of my men upset as you are,” Aegon continued speaking, his tone even without the heaviness of lust weighing within it. “Tell me about your brother. I doubt you’ve spoken of him to anyone in years.”

“I don’t want to talk about Jon,” Arya half whispered.

“Yes, you do.”

He had half clothed himself and stood between the door and Arya, though she knew he wouldn’t stop her if she wished to leave. Feeling so small and vulnerable, Arya noted Aegon’s height and commanding presence.

“He chose to go to the Wall,” Arya sighed. She didn’t want to talk about Jon, she didn’t want to talk about happier times at Winterfell, such memories never blanketed her with anything other than a cold grief. But she wanted to understand why his death hurt so acutely, especially after all of this time apart. “Starks have done it since the Wall went up, my Uncle Benjen went as well.”

Aegon said nothing, but lowered his gaze to hers and watched with intent.

“He wasn’t part of this, of any of this. He made a name for himself separate from the mess here. And he cared so much…” Arya found her voice tightening as she recalled her final encounter with Jon, the last image of him with which she tried to imagine his fate. “He hated not knowing his mother, and yet he loved us all and he never took advantage of the life our father gave us all.”

Speaking of her father seemed a poor path to take, because it would inevitably lead to Lyanna, and as little as she cared for people’s perceptions of herself, she didn’t want the sadness of that tale to hang above her and Aegon at the moment.

“Did he have a wolf as well?” Aegon asked, evidently making an attempt to continue the conversation in a light manner.

“Yes. Ghost. If Ghost were with Jon he’d not have let him die,” Arya said. “At the weirwood, I saw… I think I saw Bran’s wolf.”

A realization struck Arya. That pain had been within Nymeria, but it had not been for Ghost or any nameless yellow-eyed wolf.

“Summer,” she said. “I saw Summer.”

“Bran…” Aegon tested the name, hoping for some sort of recollection.

Arya walked past him, but back to the bed. The insight had her exhausted. How had Nymeria been with Summer?

“Bran was killed by Theon Greyjoy. So was Rickon, but I never heard of their wolves, Summer and Shaggy Dog. Rickon was only a baby…”

Having returned to the bed, having experienced an entire spectrum of emotions in the last few hours; anger, passion, guilt, sorrow, Arya slipped beneath the blankets and settled within them.

“Tell me about your sister,” Arya said as her head settled into a pillow much plusher than any she’d been offered or even felt in years.

“I didn’t know her,” Aegon said with a breath of confusion.

“How do you imagine her?”

Aegon rejoined her, yet remained on top of the blankets and remained half seated while Arya curled on her right shoulder, facing him.

“I imagine her older, my age. I’ve been told she looked much like our mother, and I’ve not met many Dornish women, so she somewhat resembles Arianne, which isn’t ideal. They might’ve been close friends, more than cousins. But Rhaenys is taller and more commanding, and her eyes are the violet that the stories tell of Targaryens.”

In some moments it was easy to forget that he was one of them, in others it was blatantly obvious.

“Tell me about coming here,” Arya said next. The sadness was ebbing, only somewhat of course, it had burned a permanent wound through her heart, and she wanted to hear of Aegon’s Targaryen tale. It might be like hearing a tale before being rushed off to bed as often happened when she was young.

“What about it? Have you not heard most of it through your cats?”

“Tell me about Pentos, and Volon Therys. I never went to either…”

Her attention was drifting, her eyes lulled shut by the waves of Aegon’s voice and the enveloping of the luxurious bed. At some point Arya tried to feel guilty again, and she realized some of her actions might indeed be a sort of punishment against herself. But the pull of sleep was too strong to consider it all.

***

The room was no longer black with night when she woke, instead a gentle scarlet and mauve that indicated it was near sunrise. The ship would leave later once it was lighter. The idea of leaving still offered relief, though Arya was somewhat perturbed that her recklessness from the previous night had not met a fulfilling end.

With Aegon sleeping next to her, their heads terribly close and one of his arms pressed into her curled chest, it was impossible to ignore him and what had nearly happened. It was less surprising now to find that her heartache had retreated only to be replaced with something equally chaotic.

_I’ll never see him again_ , she reminded herself. _I wanted this. Life before death._

She knew what to do without thinking much on it. Enough had been seen and heard in all of her untethered years for her to know what Aegon would respond to. So Arya, brash and bold, slid from beneath the blankets and rolled to her knees to take Aegon in her mouth.

It didn’t take much for him to wake.

“We shouldn’t,” came a grumbled half-protest, but it died on his lips, his entire body growing rigid a moment later.

Despite an education based on observation alone, there was no indication that the prince had any objections to the movement of her mouth and tongue. When Arya sensed he might be near to finishing, she moved with a deft speed and angled herself onto his cock so that had she’d had mounted him and her knees fell to either side of his hips.

Pain. More than the night before, but it was simple to overcome as she shifted and found precisely where she needed them to collide, her throat swelling and breath catching once it was discovered. She set the pace, Aegon wincing when she slowed her hips and drew out the movements, and then he gasped when she increased the tempo, her ass smacking against his thighs.

Arya was faintly aware of her sense of control, part of the pleasure was being drawn from her ability to guide herself over his length and her ability to send him into a coiled frenzy. Others thought they might have power over him, but not like this. It was a dark thought to be having as she came to her peak, but she knew it was not malicious, only that she was coming to understand what he had been saying to her all along about driving him mad.

Their voices rose together, Aegon’s low and animalistic while Arya’s came out high and long, not dissimilar to the sounds she heard from women who fell languid after love-making.

Aegon didn’t pull out, and the sensation of him spilling upwards into her only made her cries climb in pitch so that Aegon leaned up, clasped her neck in one hand and silenced her with his lips.

“They’ll hear you,” he panted into her, their bodies softening and Arya nearly collapsing onto top of him, her body alight with heat and exhaustion that had discharged with each tremor that had rippled through her cunt. She found that she enjoyed the way his stubble scratched at the edges of her chin and cheeks when he made to consume her.

“Let them.” She didn’t know who _they_ were, surely Haldon had reported what he’d seen and word would spread. It didn’t matter, Arya couldn’t bring herself to care the smallest bit. Aegon’s body rumbled with a low laugh and his hand splayed across her back, holding her to him as their breaths settled.

When at last she extracted herself off of Aegon it was difficult to overlook the growing pink light of the morning cascading through the room. Remnants of his seed leaked from her, some was on the inside of her thighs, and while noting that she’d find moontea, Arya went to the privy to clean herself. In any other life she might be dismayed or dazed at the situation she found herself in, but her hand was steady as she wiped a cloth which had been left by a wash basin over her body. Perhaps nothing could faze her, though this time that recognition brought her less fear than it had at others.

“Don’t,” Aegon was at the door, still bare as a babe, and Arya took a moment to admire his lean form. She’d seen men more fit, and men much less fit, and there was nothing unappealing about the torsion evident within all the muscles he had just used.

“Don’t what?” Arya raised a brow, setting the cloth down without break her gaze.

“Clean. Don’t bother.”

And then Aegon took control, and began to prove himself not as a boy or a prince, but a man and a king. Thumbs gripped the inside of her thighs where she’d wiped away the traces of their sex, and the hold was tight enough to guide her hips up and around his where they stood. Without stumbling, Aegon took her back to the bed, though for a moment Arya thought he might press her back against the wall of the privy and fuck her mindless there.

“This won’t make me stay,” she gasped as she fell flat across the short length of the bed. If Aegon pressed hard enough, she might she fall off the other side.

“I know.”

One leg hitched around his hip, the other flat and useful as leverage as he took the liberty of driving straight into her depths, and then pulling back horrifically slowly. He bit his lip as he did so, as if to keep from laughing at her discomfort and longing, though with each pump began to lose more of himself. Arya thought she heard her name, a loud desperate prayer from his lips, but her coherent thoughts had been scrambled into oblivion and she was only brought back to awareness when Aegon did his best to come to completion outside of her, though he faltered and swore.

_Three_ , Arya breathed to herself, chest heaving with the effort of it all. Three. The number at which she’d stopped counting their kisses.

Aegon had slipped off the bed, but collapsed against it in a sitting position as he caught his breath, Arya remained sprawled. With the ecstasy fading her shoulder and neck began to throb as ought to after such an endeavor.

“Alright, you’re permitted to leave now,” he joked through a gasp of air. Each knew that Arya held the standard at the moment, leading the charge and deciding her fate for herself, Aegon with little sway over what Arya might think or decide. “When you kill Cersei Lannister you should tell her about this. And, if we’re both alive, come back and recount her reaction to me.”

“She’ll be the only person I tell.”

“I wasn’t that awful,” Aegon laughed. The action shook the bed. “Do you have what you need to prevent a child?”

“I will, yes,” Arya said. “I have no intentions on towing your bastard across the kingdoms.”

_Bastard_. Gods. It took so little to drag her thoughts back to the swirling tumult of guilt and pain, the broken sorrow lay entrenched in the very marrow of her bones.  

“I’ll find Lemore before I go,” she said, willing her mind away from Jon and Aegon and instead on the steps ahead. Arya took to the floor and began gathering her clothing and belongings. In the blur of disrobing, she had discarded her dagger and Needle to the floor, though found them by the corner of the bed. It would be a stupid thing to be upset with herself for treating them so carelessly, her few possessions had experienced worse. Thinking of her meager supply of personal objects, Arya recalled that her bag with the faces and remaining dose of potion remained in her quarters, as did a small package of basic supplies she’d been permitted to gather prior to her departure.

There would be sadness in leaving, there always was a wisp of it which trailed her it no matter the place or people. Once she was dressed, and Aegon had found his trousers again she thought she might confess such thoughts, but Aegon spoke first.

“Arya, I want you to consider what I said. About after. I want you to consider your options and know that there is always room in my camp. You take up so little as it is,” he finished with a cheeky grin.

“A place in your bed, perhaps.”

“A place wherever you’d prefer it,” Aegon said, likely having expected her jab. “And if I catch myself a caged lion, and you find the time, she can be yours. She’s done you more wrong than she ever did me.”

She couldn’t give a response to his first words, there had been enough denial she knew that Aegon would not except her words even if they were the truth. And he had promised her Cersei Lannister before, though it different words. Still, she couldn’t encourage or rebuff his offer.

“Give Duck my best,” she said, placing a hand on Needle, thankful to have made attempts at wielding the sword with Duck these past weeks. “Tell him I’d have stayed for his friendship over yours.”

The smile that fell over Aegon’s lips was weakened with moroseness, though not at her words. If Arya were to be entirely honest with herself, she might have admitted to sharing in that sentiment.

“He’ll enjoy that,” Aegon gave a slight nod.

“Well…” For someone who had fearlessly mounted this Targaryen prince rather recently, Arya had little confidence when it came to this departure. She didn’t want to kiss him, and she reasoned that while he might like to part on idealistic terms, he knew better. “Don’t die. You might be the best chance this shit heap has.”

“The same for you.” Now he wore a sincerer smile, his eyes alight to match the purple of the morning shade. “On each count.”

Aegon was the first to turn away after a breath, his eyes falling to the floor for a brief moment before he removed himself, breaking whatever thread had worked to hold them together. It made it easier for Arya move through the door and to leave Aegon behind. She willed her thoughts to anything other than Aegon and the yellow flash of Summer’s eyes dance before her followed by the great keel of pain that the weirwood had gifted her through the wolves.

_A dragon was never my path. The pack is my path. And the pack has longed for blood._

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it! I'm not a big smut writer, but for better or for worse thought it was due here. We won't be getting mass amounts of it, I can tell you that much. The intention was to focus on physical aspects of Arya's experience being quite clear, while emotional aspects throughout the chapter were meant to be tumultuous. My understanding of Arya is of her being more physically than emotionally aware/adept. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and sticking around if you're one of those folk. I appreciate it more than I can say!
> 
> Preview for next chapter (its JON!)
> 
> "Lord Manderly needed the truth, Lord Massey needed the truth, and Alysanne Mormont needed the truth, else he'd lose their support the moment Winterfell was reclaimed, and they'd descend into twisting the north in a hundred directions to face foes that were of no consequence to Jon."


	10. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon experiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... it's here! 
> 
> You can find my grovelling at the end of the chapter, but without further ado, here is Jon II. Enjoy!! 
> 
> (And thanks for coming back/continuing on this journey with me, I truly appreciate it)

 

 

_Take heed my son / The darkness will come / Black holes will bend the proudest ones_

\- SYML, Symmetry

 

 

It seemed that Lord Manderly’s stay at Castle Black would only extend Jon’s purgatory rather than resolve it. The suggestion Jon had made to speak with the man at the nearest opportunity was forgotten when word reached the southern visitors that Lord Commander Ulmer was in fact at the helm of Castle Black, and not Jon Snow. Jon couldn’t be sure which explanations might be given to Alysane Mormont and Lord Manderly, though he expected that Justin Massey would receive a full account from the Stormlanders, and that others such as Lord Brandon Norrey and Alys Karstark might relay the tales to their Northern counterparts.

Those were the names invited to gather in the Shieldhall the night of Manderly’s arrival, and the following night too. To occupy himself, to ensure he was seen as an entity unto his own unattached from all vows, Jon floated from aiding the Freefolk with daily tasks, and performed some of the duties that he knew brothers of the Watch might do had there been more brothers to complete them. The Free Folk hadn’t an issue with Jon’s presence, Tormund and Val and some of the younger, bolder folk would pass on information about their visitors, though it wasn’t enough for Jon. He should have been thankful for their friendship, for his life in whatever form it was, but he wanted more and he wanted Lord Manderly to recall the stake a son of Ned Stark might have in Northern affairs.

 _That is who I am now_ , Jon had to remind himself. No longer Lord Commander, Lord Snow, no longer a brother in black. Just a bastard of the North, Jon Snow. But the remaining survivor of a line near extinguished, the final drops of Stark blood pulsed through his veins alone. In this second life, surely that had to count for something.

Jon gleaned all the information he could in those two days, though took care to not ask after it as to not seem too hassled by his exclusion. He knew the risk of going unnoticed, but had also learned the cost of boldness.

“Says he warned Stannis not to fight those Bolt bastards,” Tormund recounted to him one afternoon, having gained the information from another. “Told him to wait ‘til they could get the whole North united under a better Northern lord.”

“Boltons,” Jon corrected his friend, though saying the name only tempted him to run to Manderly and demand taking Ramsay’s head himself.

It was difficult to believe at times that he had decided he would leave Castle Black and move on Winterfell because of what the rat had written. Whereas he knew his former self had experienced an incapacitating sense of determination, Jon now felt the opposite. How might he take Winterfell with only the Freefolk? How might he convince Manderly to hand Winterfell back into Stark hands, Jon’s hands? And why—how could he feel such flattening despair to know that Arya was not Ramsay’s bride? He had not wanted it, and yet, believing she was alive and within the walls he knew, there had been purpose. Even through his fogged mind that purpose was something that had been solid and true.

The Freefolk might go south to avenge or free Mance. Massey and the Stormlanders might do the same for Stannis. Manderly might return to finish what he had begun in murdering Freys both in the keep and in the fields beyond, to be the one to unite the North.

Jon would go for it all, for his home, but it did not have the human pull that it once had. Now he felt only desire for something that he had been denied since he drew breath, and something he had denied himself when Stannis had offered. Ambition. Greed if he were to look at it so negatively as he once had. It was simpler to feel bad for it when his brothers and sisters had lived, when he knew Robb would be the rightful and capable leader someday. With them gone, with all other attachments untethered, there were no further barriers between Jon and the stir of ambition rumbling deep in his gut.

Running to Manderly and begging to be privy to the man’s plans would be foolish. Perhaps the most common thread of Jon’s experience since waking was a sense of desperation, seeking answers and paths, yet it would not do to have anyone sense that desperation. He might start on his path to Manderly, to Winterfell with Northern support, if he found a way in.

Alysane Mormont, whose frame somewhat resembled the Old Bear from what Jon could recall, was more often found alone than any of Manderly’s other counterparts. Massey was available, and approachable, though Jon knew he would not be respected by these Northern lords and would not have the ability to guide Jon into their good graces.

 _I could do this alone_ , Jon thought, but knew the idea was stupid. Of course he couldn’t. If he wanted success in whatever he might seek he could not go alone. The thought had come to him as he approached Alysane sitting alone with a bowl of broth main hall. Her glower at his sudden presence nearly dissuaded him as a stone wall might, though he pressed on to sit across from her.

“Why come this far north?”

“Because of her.” Alysane had expected the question, though it had only come to Jon a breath earlier. “Because Stannis asked me to protect her, and asked Massey to bring her here.”

“Stannis is dead,” Jon said, though Alysane only rolled her steely eyes at him in a manner that reminded him of their shared youth. “What I mean is, why keep a pledge to a dead man if you know there are safer places? Bear Island _is_ an island, is it not?”

“It is,” she replied, flicking her long dark braid over her shoulder before setting her spoon in its bowl. “You’re asking the wrong person the wrong questions, Snow.”

It took a moment of holding her gaze before Jon understood.

“Manderly,” he breathed, hands fisting on the table without understanding why. He couldn’t recall feeling such frustration when being overlooked in the past by someone he hardly knew. Perhaps he had met Manderly when he was young, he could not recall.

“I can tell you that I’ll take the girl south again, she’s not suited to your wildling women.”

Jon had not thought long or hard about what might happen to Jeyne, or the state she may be in. Seeing her had been enough to tell him what he needed to know, the purple circles beneath her eyes, the sallow skin and the involuntary flinching at movements around her. Whispers around the keep carried further details, none of which seemed beyond the wretchedness of Ramsay Bolton.

“She should go with Alys Karstark,” Jon suggested, a fondness in his stony heart endured for Alys who remained yet at Castle Black. “They are of a similar age, Alys has married a Thenn, she has both Free Folk and Westerosi women attending her. If Arnolf Karstark is dead with the rest of Stannis’ lot then she’ll have Karhold in hand again soon.”

Alysane gave another silent response, this time drinking from her horn of ale.

“I’m not the one who decides her fate. I’d wager you haven’t heard it was Theon Greyjoy who helped her escape? _No matter_ , I had thought when I learned of it. I’d have had his head for his first betrayal of the North, cut out his heart for the second, for murdering your brothers. Stannis had Asha Greyjoy since taking Moat Cailin… she had a good head on her that one. Both Greyjoys were with Stannis when we left, before his men were massacred. She might’ve made it out, but I doubt Theon did. Strange how the world allowed him to escape the death you and I might’ve offered.”

“Do you know when you mean to set out again?” Jon asked, steering the conversation away from old foes, wanting to spare himself from thoughts of Theon Greyjoy.

“I suppose once we’ve got the answers we sought,” Alysane said as though her words rung hollow and without care. “ _You_ bring up more questions, however. You’d like to establish Alys Karstark as Lady of Karhold?”

“Is there any reason not to, for now at least?” Jon asked. It was encouraging to know that the girl he had helped when his heart was more giving might succeed in reaching her goals. “I’ve had Cregan Karstark locked up for weeks and it seems that her path is clear.”

Alysane grinned, revealing a somewhat delicate smile that didn’t match her rough appearance. “I don’t see any reason she shouldn’t. As far as I’m concerned there’s not a warden in the North anymore, and there won’t be one unless all your dead Starks rise from the grave. Anyone might do anything they please and its come time for someone who deserves better to receive it.”

 _Dead Starks rising from graves_. Her words were too close, Jon flinched and Alysane gave him an odd look. _I’m not a Stark._ _I’m only snow that’s not found a way to melt._

 _You could be—_ another voice, one that had seemed to grow bolder since his awakening came to him. It was the same whisper that told him upon regarding Jeyne Poole that he could feel little more than relief that it was not in fact Arya who’d been subjected to such torture.

“Manderly fancies himself holding the North,” Alysane said, inching closer across the table. “He’s seen the North, aye, but not the North you and I have, or Alys Karstark for that matter. He’s seen the courts and the keeps, and only now is finding himself in the heart of it all. The Warden of the North, the King of the North as it were, resides in Winterfell. If you’d like a say in what happens in those hallowed halls, I’d suggest you pluck up the courage to confess your aims to him. He’s been waiting nearly two days now. As I said, I expect we’ll move again once he’s got the answers he came for.”

The words stung, especially from someone who seemed to have little belief in the man she spoke of. _Pluck up the courage_ … as if Jon had been a coward not to converse with the man. Of course this sturdy woman was correct, Jon feared something, though exactly what he was unsure of. Alysane’s glower made it clear that she knew of Jon’s recent demise, and it seemed to relay the fact that any man escaping death as he had should have little to fear.

***

Ghost had been permitted to follow at Jon’s heels these past days, no one, even the skinchanger Borroq, dared to suggest that Jon keep the direwolf locked up. Sensing, perhaps, that Jon was no longer lifeless or on the brink of death, Ghost had wandered out for a portion of that day, but met Jon outside of the hall sometime later as he made his way across the yard to the Lord Commander’s tower.

The cold didn’t seem half as sharp as it should have, and when Ghost glided alongside Jon, fur tickling at his legs, the atmosphere was somewhat balmy. Of the few things that Jon had made sense of, he realized he had seen through Ghost’s eyes while his own human body lay dead across the table. With the cold having less bite, Jon thought perhaps his senses had dulled with death, but found that the warmth radiating from Ghost was within his own veins.

“You’ve got to stay here,” Jon informed the wolf outside of the tower, and a flash of frustration rolled over Ghost, as though he thought Jon should be thankful to have him near. “It has to be me. Only me.”

There were few people around the yard, and only one of Manderly’s men outside of the room offered the to the large lord. It was difficult to say what time it might be, most days had rolled together for Jon who found it difficult to sleep and it as winter crept in there only seemed to be a few hours of discernible sunlight. Jon guessed it might be well after midnight, as the man enrobed in tattered teal colours started at Jon’s late presence.

“He’s been waiting for you,” the man nodded to Jon, stepping aside without further question. Everyone seemed to know something that Jon could not; it was as though Manderly had invited Jon to speak and yet an invitation had been relayed to everyone for the meeting except Jon himself.

“Took you damn well long enough. I came here looking for the bastard of Ned Stark, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and found only some boy burying his head in the snow.”

Jon’s foot had all only just crossed the threshold of the chambers when the tumbling, gruff yet measured voice reached him. Lord Manderly sat at the heart in a chair that seemed to hardly hold his weight, his mass impeding most of the light from reaching the doorway so that Jon couldn’t quite sort out where the man was at first. The words were spoken with the door still open, Manderly unafraid to say such things in front of his men, meaning that they had indeed been privy to Manderly’s judgements.

“You came here for me,” Jon said, stepping closer to the heart in time with his words that came out as half a question

“To the Wall, yes,” Manderly began turning. “Why drag a half-gone girl I’ve just met up the entire Kingsroad?”

“You brought Jeyne to me,” Jon clarified, bewildered, attempting to understand both Alysane’s and Manderly’s words.

Wyman Manderly did not look particularly old for a man with two grown sons, though Jon reckoned there was an agelessness within the man which had given him the guile to turn on the Boltons and Freys as he had. His hair and beard were white, but full and shiny with health, his skin red and worn from the cold, though his cheeks were cherubic and his neck was strong and wide as his jaw.

“Someone had to confirm your identity,” Manderly said, gesturing to the seat across from him with a broad hand. “Massey insisted his word should be enough, but I’d only just met the man, and it’s abundantly clear, even to you I am certain, that there is an endemic lack of trust between a handful of us. I thought you might like to confirm she is not your sister as well.”

“Where would she have gone otherwise?” Jon asked, unsure of why it mattered.

Manderly sighed, the chair beneath him creaking. “I suggested White Harbour, of course. Some of my men escorted that cheating Nestoris back to the comforts of a city. Alysane, iron-willed and persuasive alike, convinced Massey that Bear Island might be best.”

 _Persuasive._ She had been just that, the one to spur Jon into this conversation.

“We both know that Jeyne Poole does not matter,” Manderly clucked. There was a table near him, his arms long enough and hands broad enough to gather two cups from it and offer one to Jon. “She convinced me at Queenscrown that you looked like your father and sister, that I’d know it if I saw you. And she was right.”

“Seems a waste of her time,” Jon muttered.

“Not a waste of mine,” Manderly said. “We have Ramsay’s bride. _Jeyne Poole_ does not matter, what she represents, does. A fault in the Bolton reign, a symbol of their desperation. Now, I had only a brief time with Stannis Baratheon and he had spoken of your many deeds, and had convinced me in fact, that should I leave him, I’d do well to seek you out.”

The words were critical without being explicit, a disappointment hung like a cold dead weasel limp in the air around them. Jon did his best to hold the man’s critical gaze in the dark, recognizing the challenge in the words, and feeling his own pent frustration rising at them.

“Perhaps you should have taken my offer to meet shortly after your arrival,” Jon said. “You’ve come all this way only to ignore me.”

“I had no intentions on seeking out Ned Stark’s bastard until our mutual southern friend suggested that a Northerner with a purpose, a true purpose, might convince you to do something as he had not been able to. Now, I understand the sanctity of these vows your brothers in black have sworn, I didn’t intend to wrest you from your command if you were so unwilling, yet I had words prepared to persuade you and the others here of the value of a unified North for us all, for the winter ahead. Stannis spoke in a manner that suggested you would be integral to that, whether here or elsewhere. And yet, I arrive here to find that Selyse and Shireen Baratheon had died, that wildlings have settled beyond the Wall, and that you, Jon Snow, have shed your weighty mantle but have kept that pretty head of yours upon those same shoulders. You understand that I required time to learn what had come to pass.”

“You didn’t think to ask me?”

“A man is much more so what people believe he is than what he believes himself to be.”

Jon paused, the invitation to his next question hung in the air.

“What sort of man do you believe me to be, Lord Manderly?”

“I had hoped to find a leader in you,” Manderly said. “And yet you spend your days with the wildling folk, shoveling snow from doorways because you’ve lost too many men for the keep to operate as it should. You, a man known south for many reasons, doing little but a steward’s work.”

“I—” Jon wasn’t sure what excuse he might have, perhaps none, but he prickled at the lord’s observations, the man couldn’t possibly understand the mess Jon found himself to be since the witch had brought him back.

“I’m not sure that a word you say might convince me of any truth in what I’ve heard. A man raised from the dead. A man butchered by his own for abandoning his watch for a letter written by a stack of frozen shit. Might you tell me what I am to make of a man whose head might’ve been taken by his own father were this a different time? Nothing I’ve seen in these two days has convinced me that you’re the person Stannis suggested might aid the Northern cause with a blaze of passion. Some stare at you in awe as no man should be looked upon, others in disgust and again more in fear. I confess, that I do not see a leader and I do not see a fighter as I hoped.”

It might have been simpler to accept the words, for Jon to tell this mass of a man to give him a chance, but begging and whining would do little good and Jon was not sure he was capable of it.

“I’m not—your disappointment is of no consequence to me, Lord Manderly.” _A lie_. “I’ve never met you. I’ve not promised you anything.”

“And yet you need me,” Manderly grinned, his jaw broad and beard stretching across it somehow made it seem even more massive. “Because you want Winterfell whether your sister is trapped within its walls or not. Whether your wildling friend is alive or dead. Your father was a most reasonable man, and yet I was told that no matter how you tried to live by that same reason it was rather difficult for you to constrain yourself. I was told that was the sort of man I needed.”

Jon was seething, his breath quickening. People had looked down upon him in his last life and in this renewed one. It was all he seemed to know. Except for the moments when they hadn’t, and those—he recalled the sweetness of those moments and knew well that they had a power over him that should make _a reasonable man_ squirm.

“And you find me wanting. Whether you wish for me as an ally or not—”

“I do wish it.”

There was an urge to storm from the room, slam his wine—wherever the hells it even came from—on the floor and leave a sticky, pungent mess for the lord. Though, Satin or someone of a similar rank would likely be ordered to clean it up.

 _You see nothing in me, and I see nothing in you_ , Jon wanted to hiss. Instead, he tried to sift through his words carefully.

“I cannot stay here. I will not stay here,” Jon said, rising from his seat, though with care. “I will leave this place as a ghost, word was sent as far as Storm’s End that I’ve died. Stannis Baratheon wanted me to have Winterfell as a means to succeed power to him, to kneel the moment Stark banners flew once more. That is not—I will not do that for you, Lord Manderly. But you can be assured that I will leave Castle Black, and that I will do all in my power to take back my home from _anyone_ who has unrightfully claimed it.”

“You threaten me when I promise only unity.”

“You play the same game as the rest.”

“I do,” Manderly admitted, surprising Jon. “Yet I play it better. I understand the politicking of the south and the honour-bound ideals of the North. I have seen the brutality of it all, and I have dealt my fair share of it. I know that I may be frowned at for taking the head of Ned Stark’s remaining son, yet that if I say it is for his abandonment of the Wall and his vows, it will be accepted by many, and you will be forgotten as a bastard always fears.”

“You speak of taking my head as though you have any authority to do so,” Jon said, offering a grim smile. Perhaps it would be better that way, for everyone. “You’d be so bold to take on the burdens of the Warden, and aye, some might accept you, but others will not. It hasn’t escaped your notice that Lady Mormont sees you as little more than a power-grabbing southerner.”

Manderly continued to take the sharp words in stride as though his demeanor itself was a shield against anything he did not wish to hear.

“Of course that is what she thinks of me, she is here only because I ordered Jeyne here, and she would not leave the girl. I would take the wardenship if it remained that Boltons were the only competition, but I wouldn’t deign to do so while Stark blood lives. That is a Northern scorn I would not wish to face. There is a choice you must make, move on Winterfell yourself with wildlings and Stormlanders, convince the North that you _are_ the remaining Stark, or do so by my side, with the weight of my word against others. There remains the issue, in either scenario, of explaining how you have fled the Wall without consequence.”

The issue would not remain if Jon picked the latter option, he understood that well enough. Manderly would find an eloquent excuse and purpose for Jon’s presence. Any words Jon might find for himself would carry only a fragment of Manderly’s conviction.

There was no choice, was the further truth. Jon could kill the Boltons and take Winterfell and convince many that he was Ned Stark’s son, but Manderly would come. He might come with swords and kill Jon and those who followed him, but he’d more likely to come with offerings, food and supplies and shelter for the winter. Jon would take a decimated Winterfell, would have few allies, and would have little to support the North that would be ruled from that seat.

“I don’t want it shared,” Jon began, sighing, relinquishing his grip. “I don’t want it shared that I am alive, what my intentions are. I want anonymity until I see Ramsay’s face. They mustn’t know what I come to do.”

“That may be difficult—”

“There will be rumours and tales of what transpired here. I want that uncertainty, that fear, to reach our enemies before we do. But I do not want them to know the truth, I don’t want Ramsay Bolton to know the truth until my sword’s lodged in his throat and he understands that it is a ghost who bears it.”

The words brought Manderly the glee that Jon had hoped they would bring himself, but somehow they rang empty with his concession.

“This is the man I was told I would find,” Manderly said, eyes sparkling and aglow from the firelight.  “Yet, not a ghost—”

Jon mumbled something unintelligible to himself, feeling a fool for what he was about to do. He pulled at the layers of fur and leather at his neck and chest, unfastened toggles and ties until the clothing was pushed to the side to show the red scars slashing across his chest. Some were thinner, less ugly while others were bulbous and purple with anger.

“We’ve both killed men, Lord Manderly, and you know one does not survive a blow such as this. Death does not seem final in the North, yet I have no intentions on being murdered for my mistakes again.”

***

A gathering had been called in the morning for all of those not looking to remain at Castle Black for whatever reason, and yet Jon still had not received an invitation from Manderly himself. As Jon joined the mass of people moving towards the Shield Hall, only Brothers of the Watch remained behind it seemed, Val fell into step alongside him, her expression unreadable.

“You spoke to him?”

Jon nodded, noticing all of the Free Folk entering the hall with them. “He didn’t ask after the Free Folk.”

“He needs to be aware of why we had to come south,” Val said, her chin high and tone strong. “No one has the power to send us back, but they have the power to slaughter us.”

Frankly, Jon had allowed the Free Folk’s plight—the problem of the Others and the impossible issue they posed—to slip his mind, his focus had fallen to his own issues and his own longing. He wanted to argue that he had no authority to keep them safe, but if he were to hold Winterfell as he wished, he would. Guilt, though only a touch, came to Jon as Val searched him with her wintery eyes. Not the guilt he should have felt.

“If it came to it, would you leave those you’ve helped for your castles and fancies?” Val asked, her tone accusing in a manner that reminded Jon of Ygritte.

 _Ygritte_.

It was a punch into him, and the most of anything he’d felt in these past days. Her physical memory was faint, but the grip she’d had within him held strong, even through death twice over.

“It won’t come to that if I am the one who holds the castles,” Jon said.

Their exchange ended and Jon slinked to the side of the hall beneath the shields above, Val following him while all others, women, children, men, old and young filtered in.

At the head of the room was the grand table Jon had sat at the night which had seemingly sealed his fate. Manderly held the center with Alysane to his right and Lord Brandon Norrey of the mountain clans to his left. Justin Massey was seated there as well as Alys Karstark. No representatives of the Watch or the Free Folk, no one who know of the realities that lay north, only those of the south.

Val was right, of course. The Free Folk needed protection in these lands, and they all needed protection from what lay beyond. Jon might have Winterfell at hand, but it would come to mean nothing if the threat of the unknown somehow tumbled past the wall.

Manderly’s voice, calm and commanding as it had been the previous night, carried through the hall a few moments later, the tittering of the crowd quietening in response.

“We mustn’t overstay our welcome here at the Wall. They need their remaining supplies for the winter, and we must move about the North while we still can. You, who have gathered here, do not intend on remaining at the Wall. You are not obligated to follow as we do, but I have called you here to inform you of a bargain that has been struck.”

The Lord’s measured gaze went left to Alys Karstark, who looked an entirely different woman than when she had arrived all the time ago, looking to Jon for help. Jon thought for a moment of Cregan Karstark, still in the ice cells, wondering what Ulmer might decide to do with the man.

“We will move on Karhold,” Manderly announced. “There, with the keep and land secured, Lady Alys Karstark and her husband Sigorn of the Thenns have offered the land that has sat empty due to the war to any Free Folk who may wish to settle there. Alternately, the Lord Commander has agreed that those who came from beyond the Wall, and who had settled in its towers and keeps may remain at the cost of working to repair and maintain said structures.”

Jon might’ve counted a hundred thoughts that flashed through his mind in that moment, many of them surprising him with situations and names he thought forgotten. Val had turned to Jon before he could put any words to such those thoughts, but rather than speaking to him, she spoke over the din.

“Your southern king had promised us the Gift,” said, her voice loud enough to stir others. Jon looked to Lord Norrey, his nose wrinkling at the mention of such land.

“Aye, how big is this land?”

“How can we trust ya’?”

“You can trust us—” It was Alysane now, rising with her dark braid, which she flung over her should as if it were a pest. “You can trust us because we all wish for the same thing. Or at least, many of you do. I’d like to fuck off back to my island, but here I am.”

“The lady speaks true,” Manderly said, gesturing to Alysane with a mitt of a hand. “The Boltons have murdered our kin, they have murdered the Free Folk’s kin, the have ended Stannis Baratheon. Those who do not wish to settle, who wish to fight will be welcome as allies at our side. We are not the only ones who have suffered at the hands of the Boltons either. Families across the north have had their kin slain fighting against him, or have had loved coerced to his side. Lord Norrey—”

Any man might’ve been considered small next to Wyman Manderly, but Lord Brandon Norrey was small by any measure and much more sinewy than one might expect of a man from the mountains. Despite his small stature, his voice commanded attention. “I’d have died before ceding my lands to your lot, yet my sons died with Stannis, the blood of those we loved spilled by the same evil. I cannot promise you a blade of grass in my lands near the Gift, not yet, but I may embrace you as brothers as after we have won.”

As Jon expected, the words brought excitement to many, compelling and genuine as they were, but they made Val prickle beside him. The Free Folk would have to die for their land, for peace. Again, those sitting at the table couldn’t possibly understand what the Free Folk had already faced and lost.

“Your brother’s not dead,” Jon found himself shouting towards Alys then, his thought turning back to the initial announcement. “I do not doubt your good intentions, my Lady, but those of your people who may not find understanding for their new neighbours, and who may not accept your authority.”

Alys turned to face him, somehow having heard while others had not, and she held a hand up until near silence fell.

“My brother fell into Lannister hands long ago, Lord Snow, and when he is freed he will find a world he does not recognize. He will have to adapt, as the rest of us will and have. When I have Karhold, I do not wish to sit and wait for him to return, my home needs a leader before that time. I expect anyone who dares defy that might be reprimanded accordingly once more.”

Her eyes shone for a breath, acknowledging Jon’s past, and perhaps future aid.

“To take Karhold you must past Last Hearth,” Jon turned his attention Manderly now. He’d heard that Manderly’s fifty men here were only a fraction of his forces that had slain Freys in the fields outside Winterfell. Further, he’d heard that they’d split along the Kingsroad and had ridden out to find or sway allies to their cause, including the Umbers. “Your numbers are split a hundred ways, Lord Manderly. You owe an explanation to all here on how you plan to rally the North, before any shed their blood in your name.”

This—information, a plan—was what Jon had wanted from the moment Manderly arrived. For one reason or another he felt he deserved it, and seeing how the Free Folk, and Alys Karstark and even the Stormlanders might be persuaded with promises of victory.

“We meet either friends or foe at Last Hearth, but even my men here outnumber the small garrison they retain. We return Karhold to Lady Karstark. In the south, my son gathers allies and supplies. In the west my men find allies at Moat Cailin, they speak with the Flints and the Dustins and all those half in Bolton’s grip and at a distance enough that he can no longer spare men to prevent my movements. The western forces will gather at a predetermined point, as will the east, and once our numbers are evident, we will take the Boltons.”

 “How many men did Stannis lose at Winterfell?” Jon asked, Manderly, his voice clear and loud so that the hall had somewhat silenced. “His own men, his sellswords, how many Northmen died after pledging themselves to him?”

“A thousand,” Manderly said, unsurprised by Jon’s digging. “More. He lost many to the winter itself. I don’t trust the Boltons to have allowed any survivors. We have lost countless allies, if that is why you ask. Which is why we must gather those that we can.”

The room was moved towards Manderly and his words, his charisma could motivate people in a manner that Jon could not. It seemed so simple, it seemed that if they followed Lord Manderly’s words they would be guaranteed success; that the spilling of Northern, Free Folk and Stormlander blood would a suitable sacrifice. Something was missing for Jon, and perhaps for Val standing beside him and those of the Free Folk who understood how much they would have to give before receiving anything in return. Against Westerosi forces, trained in yards and clad in plated armour and riding atop great steads on lands that they understood, the Free Folk were at a grave disadvantage. Many would fall, and easily.

As if hearing his thoughts, Val turned to Jon, concern tightening her gaze, lips pursed together.

 _They have to know_ , she seemed to say. _They may not believe you, but they will not believe me_.

How to convince Manderly of the Others in a manner that bring him to care? If these combined forces somehow found success, a peace was forged, many would shuffle back to their homes or to the next enemy, and Jon would be left with the Free Folk alone understanding the risks that lay beyond. He would need Winterfell if they ever were to face the Others, the North required stability if it wanted to survive merely the winter excluding its undead perils.

Lord Manderly needed the truth, Lord Massey needed the truth, and Alysane Mormont, and Alys Karstark and Brandon Norrey and Justin Massey needed the truth. Without it, Jon might lose their support the moment Winterfell was reclaimed and they might twist the North in a hundred directions seeking out foes that were of no consequence to Jon, or curling up to their hearths with no intention of leaving it again.

Sometime during his thoughts, the hall had burst into a cacophony again.

“I have to show you something!” Jon shouted it, but with attention turned none but the Free Folk around him seemed to hear.

He bellowed the words once more, his chest heaving and aching at his wounds. It was enough to capture more attention, for Alys Karstark to turn her gaze to him.

“Lord Snow has more to say!”

All eyes fell on him what he felt was an inaudible snap.

“I have to show you—all of you—what may come for us when all of this is over. You have to know that this will go beyond keeps and kings, that none of that will matter if you don’t know…”

The words surprised Jon, the fury within him that had been directed at Manderly and the Boltons fell back on the Others, and the terror and uncertainty of what lay beyond the Wall. Not all of it; Jon knew, frankly, that the North would stand strongest if he held authority, and if it could not be at the Wall, it would have to be at Winterfell.

“Anyone who grew up in the North heard tales of the Others and the Long Night, dead men walking, a sunless winter which lasts a generation or more. Something has awoken—the dead are real, the Others are real and they kill more senselessly than any man, and they take those they kill and raise them again as their soldiers.

“And the North—if that Wall is breached, or if the seas should freeze, if the Long Night comes, the North will not stand a chance as it is. If we are—united, wholly, willingly, there is the opportunity to prepare for such a thing. It is why the Free Folk were permitted south. It doesn’t matter from which side you hail, if it’s a castle, a keep, a shack or a hole. If you’re Westerosi or Pentoshi, a lion, a kraken, a wolf, a stag. They take all, and give nothing, not even the mercy of death. I understand that this is impossible to believe, though you can ask any number of people who had been at the Wall or beyond. The dead come and with them our end. And I—there is a way to prove it to you all.”

Silence. Unbearable, stifling, assaulting silence.

“If this were real—” It was one of Manderly’s men, not at the table, but a guard beside it, who Jon had no intention of allowing to speak.

“This _is_ real!” He cut the man off. “We may argue that the Wall may not fall, but the Wall was built after the first Long Night and there has not been a second, and they have not come so close until now. And there are ways—stories of how it might fall, and as the other stories are to be believed these should be as well.”

The Free Folk were watching Jon, many with skepticism, which he understood. They had no wish to return north and face the dead man and their dead kin. But he had a plan—

“I have two dead men with which to show you.”

And then the silence shattered.

***

It took much goading and two days to gather the metal required for what he intended to do. The idea had come to him half in the Shield Hall and half each day that he had shoveled snow from the doors which lead both the store rooms and ice cells.

He was faintly aware that he should have questioned the morality of throwing dead men out into the cold and hoping for them to rise as soulless beasts, but he could barely remember who they had been in life, and the concerns of any of the Night’s Watch no longer mattered to him. In life he had hoped they would rise or show some signs of it, and after death he wanted the same, but was willing to do whatever necessary to ensure that they did.

Two metal cages were pieced together by smiths from all camps, including the Night’s Watch who saw the potential benefits of Jon’s madness. The frozen corpses were dragged from the cells, warmed by fires ever so slightly to ensure they could be bent and shifted into the cages. Bones broke and tendons snapped, but Jon thought it would be all the better, for if they were raised, their visitors from the south would better see the powers at work.

Volunteers were needed to drag the enclosures out and place them in the ground beyond the Wall. Tormund and his kin did not volunteer as Jon hoped, the loss of their own too fresh still, though a lithe dark haired spearwife named Megga and two blonde wildling brothers called Norrik and Arnid stepped forward to help. Lord Massey, Alysane Mormont and two of Manderly’s guard also agreed to aid Jon, while a pair of sturdy horses each pulled a sledge.

It might’ve been just past noon when they set out, the clouds still illuminated from above with a low sun, but it was to set soon. His companions shivered and huddled into their furs as blast of true northern air hit them, the gate rising gradually. Ahead of them was the clearing, now covered in untouched snow, and beyond the thicket of trees which hid whatever might be waiting. The cold seemed to barely reach him, it was nothing more than a nuisance just as it seemed to have little effect on Ghost who padded along at his side.

“Here,” Jon stopped them a certain distance out.

“Why here?” Massey asked, his tone less annoyed than Jon expected, more curious.

Jon pointed to the top of the Wall. “We’ll be able to see it from up there.”

Together they slid the cages from the sledges, using leather straps that had been wound around the haphazard bars. The bodies thudded about, but no one seemed to mind much, everyone had seen worse than a pair of frozen corpses.

“Put them into the ice here,” Jon directed as he passed out a batch of thick bolts that had been kept in a pouch at his belt. Each of them struck the nails on the inside of the cage with hammers carried out by the horses, ensuring to curve the head of each bolt over the bar like a hook.

Once the cages were set and unmovable by human hands, Jon set torches around the cage that sat slightly closer to the Wall. He had not explained each aspect of his plan to these people, or to Manderly and those watching above. No one questioned him, he reckoned they thought they were working only to humour a mad man.

They returned to the tunnel, leaving the tools and sledges near the gate once its layers had been shut again. Alysane, Massey and the Manderly guards followed Jon to the top of the Wall, though he did not speak until he came to Manderly waiting with Lord Norrey, Alys Karstark and Val.

“I reason we see something as soon as the sun falls,” Val turned as Jon approached, her face flushed with the cold. “You’ve captured their attention, at the very least.”

“We move in a four days, regardless,” Manderly said. The man was large enough to nearly fill the entire wall walk, and Jon wondered how many men it had taken to pulley him to the top of the Wall.

“Plenty of time to think on what you will see in the morning. We cannot go out until then,” Jon offered a humourless smile.

“I may dwell on a mountain, but I’ll not freeze up here all night if I don’t have to,” Lord Norrey muttered, hugging his furs around his slight frame. “Find me in the morning, Snow.”

It didn’t take long for the western horizon to glow orange and for a muted indigo sheath to cover the sky. Below the torches became visible, a blur of flickering light in a black stretch of land and sky, Jon thanked whatever gods might listen for the fair weather.

Jon had only heard of the mists that came with the dead, but had never witnessed them himself. It was unmistakable when it did come, accompanied by a chill that at last settled into his bones in a familiar way. His breath seemed to condense in his throat, in his lungs, rather than just in the air, and a tinge of terror nestled into those chilled bones—and Jon felt alive.

The wind whistled around them, the ground was shrouded and the torches impossible to see.

Manderly huffed, Alysane cast her dark eyes sidelong at Jon. Massey and Alys had stepped closer to the edge as trying to see something helpful for Jon’s sake.

“What are we supposed to see?” Alysane asked.

“This,” Val said. “This is how they come. You don’t realize what’s been taken until the mist is gone.”

“Norrey had the right of it,” Manderly turned and started towards the winch elevator. “No point freezing my cock off if the spectacle’s in the morn.”

The others three remained even as the winds weakened minutes later. Alys Karstark’s slender face was cross with concern while Massey’s handsome smile had twisted with fear. Alysane was rather unreadable, but as she had not departed swiftly as the others, Jon figured something had grounded her here.

“I feel—” Alys Karstark began, before Val spoke.

“Frightened?” she asked, pushing from the ramparts.

It didn’t seem to fit what the girl had meant to say, and she shook her head, the concern remaining on her fine features. “It feels like it suits the stories, the ones you mentioned. But I won’t be able to believe it until I see it.”

“Did you have such tales in the south, Lord Massey?” Alysane asked the blond lord who shook his head in response, crossing his arms over his chest. “Of dead things in the water perhaps—”

The words triggered something in Jon’s memory; he had recalled Cotter Pyke speaking of Hardhome, and the dead that lingered on land and in sea. Jon had seen something, something which had told him Hardhome was lost and he had spoken of it to Val and Tormund, but it had been a blank space in his mind since, whatever it was he had seen. Something flashed back to him, a weirwood, the air shrieking, beings of ice in forms he couldn’t quite recall.

“Yes,” Massey had answered Alysane. “And tales of giant beasts lurking at unimaginable depths, not only krakens but great whales and all the dead who have been lost at sea turned to savage creatures. And you, on your island—”

The two had fallen into conversation, an ease falling over the group once more as they absently wandered back down the walk towards their ride back to the ground.

“You should know that I trust you, Jon,” Alys stepped to him then. “I have trusted everything you’ve said since I arrived here. I know my husband and his people have spoken of such things, but they speak of many things beyond belief—I didn’t want this to be real.”

“It will help his people trust in you, and this agreement you made with Manderly,” Val said. “You will come to understand what your offer of land means to them. And if that land and those people need protection from this,” she gestured out to where the mist had begun to dissipate, “they will know that they can put faith in their leader.”

Below, the torches had died, contrary to what Jon had hoped for. Fire had been useful on the first wight he’d encountered, and he had wondered if it might work as a deterrent of sorts. With that, there was little left to see, and so he gestured for Alys and Val to follow as the others had. It felt strange to descend the Wall, hoping for once that his fears would be proven true, that he would have the dead walking south of the wall with the sunrise.

Ghost had waited for Jon at the base of the elevator, though at his side was Justin Massey, Alysane having left their chatter for solitude, Jon reckoned. The wolf seemed unbothered by the man.

 “I haven’t pledged our forces to Manderly,” the Stormlander said, lips turning into a slight smile.

“You can do as you please.”

“We’d like to avenge our King,” Massey continued, falling into step with Jon as he began walking. “Those wildlings would like to avenge theirs, the Manderlys theirs, and you yours. Seems everyone else ends up with something to show for it. The men here—I heard all about what happened to you and many of the men think you blessed by R’hllor’s own hand. I admit I don’t feel passionately for the Lord of Light, but I know that Stannis meant to legitimize you and to give you Winterfell. Has Manderly promised the same?”

“He hasn’t promised anything.”

“Are you going to follow him?”

“Until Winterfell,” Jon said. Around them, the keep remained bustling with people, mostly those who would be moving south and east in the coming days, gathering the few supplies they could while the snow ceased.

“Then we join you, Jon Snow,” Massey allowed his famed grin to spread across his handsome face then. “I’d rather you than the walrus.”

“I can’t promise you anything either,” Jon said, understanding what the Stormlander was reaching for. There was nothing for them south of the Neck anymore, and they’d been in the North long enough to understand it to a point. “You’ll be in the same lot as the Freefolk.”

“And I know you’ll do what you can for them when the time comes.”

Jon gave no sign of agreeing to Massey’s words, but the man turned, still wearing his smile and set for the Grey Keep where many of the southern visitors were residing. He might’ve been grateful for the man’s support, but there was a bitterness in knowing how it had come, and how it might be maintained.

There was no sleep to be had that night. Jon had taken up in Donal Noye’s old quarters by the armoury once more, thankful for the small space to himself and to Ghost. The wolf laid on the ground but kept his head propped on the low mattress. His red eyes were fixed on Jon for what seemed the entire night, as Jon’s thoughts spun around his head. He didn’t exactly fear what might happen if his experiment bore no fruit, no judgement anyone passed on him could be worse than what had already been thought. He would continue with Manderly, with the Free Folk, he would focus on Winterfell.

But he wanted badly to be right, to prove to all those from the south one reason among others that he should not be overlooked. Jon had asked himself why it mattered so much, perhaps it was from squandered chances in his first go of life, regret for mistakes made. He wondered what he might feel if he merely returned to Winterfell and Ramsay Bolton’s head sat on a pike, but there was no answer. It wouldn’t bring any of _them_ back, but he’ll have shown that any enemies of the Starks might fear for their past deeds. Was it truly revenge and esteem that he wanted to badly?

If he were being entirely honest, he didn’t see how they might also survive the dead should the Wall ever be breached, but he hoped to have offered the North a fighting chance. Was that something he truly wished for, to be the man who adequately prepared people for their inevitable demise?

Jon didn’t know. He felt rather listless despite knowing all that lay ahead, all that might be. In one moment he felt passionately for a mission and the next he felt utterly indifferent. Perhaps death had brought that on him, and any sense of footing would evade him in this life. Ghost’s hot, slow, sleep breath at Jon’s legs reminded him that this might all be for one thing, for the sake of his Stark blood—either out of a need to preserve Stark legacy or to live up to it, he was unsure.

***

The others were gathered when Jon set out to the gates of the Wall at dawn, bundled in their furs against another sharp wind that had begun overnight. Snow would come again, and likely a large amount, they would have to move quickly.

The ground outside of the gate was sheer from the winds, sparkling under the bits of sunlight that peered from behind the grey clouds. That it had not snowed was a blessing, everything that had occurred overnight was made quite clear on the canvas of the smooth, swept ground.

The first notable change was that one torch remained lit around the cage that had been placed nearer the wall. Jon had ensured that each person who came from the Wall bore a lit torch—if these dead had been reanimated he was confident the fire would be useful.

As the grew closer, a sense of disbelief washed over those who had not encountered the dead previously. Footfalls on the crunching ground became lighter as if the walker feared waking what lay ahead. Something had been scattered around the furthest cage—body parts, Jon expected.

“Could it have been an animal?” Massey asked as the group circled the cages, faces twisting with discomfort and confusion.

An arm lay outside the cage, and the body within had been twisted and torqued in a manner that no human body could possibly be moved. Clothing had been shredded, skin torn from the face and frozen again in the night, so it was stiff like peeling plaster. There was no blood, the man too frozen to spill it, but there were icy chunks of what might’ve been blood or tissue that Ghost began sniffing at.

“Could’ve been,” Jon agreed with Massey, grinning inwardly as he watched the man’s shoulders release with relief. “Though I reckon an animal might’ve eaten it, Ghost seems intrigued enough.”

The three wildlings gave a huff of laughter.

“How do we do this?” One of the brothers asked, Norrik or Arnid, Jon was unsure.

“We need to heat the ice around the bolts to remove them. Everyone else must hold the fire near, if the dead wake it should keep them away,” Jon said, gesturing to the closer of the cages in which the body appeared relatively undisturbed. He thought they might be more cautious near it, with all of its limbs and blue skin still intact.

Jon worked to heat and extract the bolts from that cage, having little fear for his life, while one of the brothers worked on the other. The southerners’ eyes shot between the dead, the torches and where Jon and the wildling worked.

The bolts came loose after a time, and the dead remained still.

“Tie them to the sledges, under the platform,” Jon said. “Keep the flames near.”

He went to the detached arm, and grabbed it with a gloved hand before offering it to Ghost.

“Hold on to this, alright?”

Ghost grasped the forearm near the wrist, sensing what it might do, and understanding well that it was not food.

It took longer to load the cages onto the sledges this time than it had initially. Massey, Alysane and the Manderly guards handled the cages and bodies with care, eyes widening at the slightest mishandling.

“They won’t turn you if you touch them,” Jon clarified, helping to lift a corner.

“Just might kill us is all,” Alysane scoffed, rolling her eyes as the group collectively heaved it a short distance off the ground.

“You believe me then, about all this?” asked, Jon, to which her round eyes only narrowed as the cage was set down on the sledge.

“Not yet. Just loading dead men on and off a sleigh as far as I’m concerned.”

Magga and the brothers were willing to work close to the cages and tied them securely down with leather strapping, and only once they were fully fastened did Jon usher the group back beneath the raised gate.

“We’ll place them back in the ice cells,” Jon announced as they moved through the tunnel. “I’ll have Ghost keep watch if nothing happens soon.” He hoped desperately that it would not be necessary, that their haunting blue eyes would flash open on the other side of the Wall and they’d thrash about their cages. It struck him then, that he had hoped to gain influence through fear, though he found it hard to feel any himself.

 _So be it_.

Jon should have expected what came next, their party crossing the midway mark of the tunnel, with nothing but torch light to guide them. It began as a low growling, like a dog or a wolf, but warbling with a chaos that only humans possessed. Then came the shouts, the sluicing of steel being drawn.

“Don’t strike them!” Jon turned to face the group, some who had clamoured backwards and others who had stepped closer. “Your weapons will do nothing.” He had learned that from the Freefolk.

In the cages, the bodies had stirred to life. It began slowly, first as a crackling of bones as limbs shifted, and then the horror came all at once. The intact body was grappling at the bars of the cage with frostbitten fingers, and then threw itself with all it’s might at one side of the cage so that it toppled over, sledge and all tipping to the side.

The other was tearing at its clothing and skin, as though it hadn’t been damaged enough already, and couldn’t seem to find a way to right it’s warped torso and remaining limbs. The shrieks that tore from their mottled throats pierced at the ears of the living, striking through veins and then hitting at the heart so that Jon felt himself shudder. Now, the noise was not animal nor human, but something entirely different.

Alysane made to move at the mobile corpse, which had found enough strength to rattle its cage and sledge, which began pulling on the attachments to the horse that had been leading it. The horses were whinnying, pawing, and doing their best to shake themselves from the terrible creatures.

“Don’t!” Jon warned her, drawing Longclaw then, for the first time in what seemed a thousand years. “The flames will keep them back. Ghost!”

It wasn’t the time for experimenting, but Jon couldn’t embrace terror in the same manner as the others. The wolf was equally unmoved by the chaos and the shrieks, and set the arm down in front of Jon, the fingers on the detached limb were beginning to grasp at air.

Jon passed his torch to Alysane, if only to prevent her from drawing her sword, and extracted his dagger from his belt. He jabbed it at palm of the hand, which had begun opening and closing like a flower trying over and over to bloom. The knife ran clean through, pinned in the ground on the other side, but the hand continued to move.

And so Jon drove the Mormont sword through the wrist, unsure what to expect, but hoping that the bit he and Sam—Sam…Jon had scarcely recalled where this idea come from until that moment—had learned of dragonsteel might be proven true.

Not only did the hand still, but the skin split apart around the sword as if seared, the flesh coiling in on itself and turning black until it fell still. When Jon drew the tip of Longclaw back, there seemed to some sort of charred ashen substance flaking from the wound he’d inflicted.

“What was that?” It was Magga who had drawn closer.

“Valyrian steel,” Jon answered, standing up, but not before offering the arm back to Ghost. “Or dragonsteel, I suppose they are the same. I learned once that it might work.”

“How’d you reckon the lot of us get some?” she asked, turning back to the mayhem continuing behind them.

“No one knows how to make it anymore,” Jon told her. Alysane had been watching, while Massey, a Manderly guard and either Arnid or Norrik had convened to attempt to pull the restless wight back onto the sled. “Might just have to find the few people who do have it.”

“You’re welcome for that,” Alysane nodded at Longclaw, back in its sheath. It hadn’t occurred to Jon what the sword might mean to her, but he didn’t feel near to offering it back, especially in this moment. The young woman of Bear Island, sighed, rubbed at her chilled nose with her sleeve. “This is it then. It’s real.”

“More real if you felt compelled to help,” Massey all but spat at them. The body was reaching between the bars now, attempting to snatch any hand that came near to the cage, and so Massey and the guard were batting the torches, dodging the grip shooting at them.

Jon took his torch back from Alysane, rounded the mess to the other side, and without thinking much on it, forced the head of it through the bars, sending the body scrambling backwards with a wail.

It was then Jon was able to fully see the eyes; a steely shade of ice, a glowing blue beneath the opalescence.. He wondered what it was that they were seeing. Was there anything left of their human selves, did they recognized Jon and wish to inflict a similar fate on him as he had them? He reflected, not for the first time, that they might be nearly the same creatures.

Together the three men took advantage of the wight’s momentum, and forced the cage back on the sledge as it fell backwards in terror at the flames. The group’s stalling had ushered in a number of people from the opposite end of the tunnel, Jon hoped it was Manderly and his band of followers, if only so he didn’t have to wait any longer to prove what he had claimed.

“Snow!”

Between the mob coming towards them, and the wights continuing to shriek and rattle, the horses were panicking without end, though no one dared turn away from the dead to try to calm them. So, Jon released the pair, unhitching the pulls and slapping their rears.

“Watch it!” He shouted back down the line as the horses bucked into action, tearing down the tunnel and sending the group scattering towards the frozen walls.

There was a yelp behind Jon, a human cry, one of pain rather than mindless hysterics. In the same moment, Ghost had dropped the ruined arm and leapt at the rear cage.

One of the Manderly guards was bleeding, the twisted corpse had righted itself and had reached at the distract man. Magga had flashed her torch at the wight in the same moment Ghost had reared, and the wight shrunk back in on itself though the strangled noise continued to rip from its throat.

The Manderly guard stumbled, grasping at his forearm as blood dripped to the ground, pressuring a wound that his single hand could not hope to cover. The other guard was tearing at a portion of his surcoat, the teal turning black with blood when it was bound around the gash.

“How did it do that?” The injured man asked, voice trembling. “No man could—”

“It’s not a man,” Norrik or Arnid said. Both men were pulling at the straps they’d used to resettled the front cage, though that wight had begun thrashing about with the iron stench of human blood in the air.

“What in the Seven Hells—”

Brandon Norrey arrived first, his wide eyes flashing around the group before settling on the deadmen.

“It’s real, my Lord,” Massey said. “And you’d best keep back if you don’t wish to lose an arm.”

“Lose an arm?” The Manderly guard asked, his eyes glazed with worry and pain. “Thought Snow said I won’t die from it.”

“You’ll die from the blood loss,” Jon shot back at the man, though he was unsure why his tempered had flared. The guard wouldn’t die; he’d have gone into shock if the wound had been deep enough.

Val, Alys, Manderly, Tormund and a troop of others appeared, many rather breathless. Eyes were flashed open wide, bewilderment and dread pulled lips into deep frowns, brows furrowed and gasps could be heard.

“Now imagine hundreds, thousands, of these. Imagine your own dead rising with the sole purpose of making you bleed,” Jon spoke to the group, though the Free Folk need not imagine. “If a dead man can tear through flesh so easily while trapped, imagine the others.”

Jon mostly watched Wyman Manderly, hoping for the man to betray some sense of disbelief, or for him to share a look with Jon, confirming his trust. It irked Jon that he so wanted the man’s approval, despite convincing himself over and over it wasn’t worth anything.

But Manderly remained stoic, unconcerned even that one of his men had been wounded by such a creature. “How do we kill these? Cut off their heads?”

It was enough to show that he understood the threat, and for that Jon had to be grateful. The Free Folk might be better believed, their cause understood, and Jon’s word seen as valid.

“We cannot kill them,” Jon said, shaking his head with zeal. “Well, we can. With fire and Valyrian steel, it seems. But people have to see. I’ll speak with the Lord Commander, one can remain in the ice cells, but the other must leave with us.”

“You propose we expend resources to drag a monster across the north?” the Manderly guard with the torn surcoat had turned to Jon to speak. “It’ll try to take more than an arm next.”

“People have to see,” Val argued from the crowd, her tone impatient at the man attempting to lecture on what the Others might do. “Those you want as allies will call you mad otherwise.”

Her words in particular seemed to change something in the great lord, and a smiled spread across Manderly’s bearded face. The way the hair above his upper lip turned, he did look quite the walrus Massey had mentioned, though Jon had only seen the skin of one and another illustrated in a book.

“I reckon we’ll see shit running down Ramsay’s legs before you get a chance to put that sword through his throat.”

Manderly gave a slight tip of his head in acknowledgement to Jon with the words, though there was not a bloom of triumph in Jon’s chest as there ought to have been. The thankful reunification of the North that the Lord of White Harbour had envisioned would be marred by this, by fear, and Jon would be fear’s grim usher.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happens, right!? I'll apologize only a bit for the wait, if I'd posted this any sooner you might've received complete garbage. I rewrote it a number of times over the past few months, and still am not 100% satisfied, but what can you do. 
> 
> Instead, I'll thank you all for reading to here, for coming back after the wait or for reading through if you're just starting out. It means the world to me that you've done so, and that many of you have taken time to leave feedback as well :) (always happy for more feedback too!)
> 
> Next we have either Jon III (thought of putting it all in this chap, but decided not to) or Arya VIII. Both have bits written, but as to not spoil too much, I won't post a preview yet (though may later on!). Here's to a new year where my chapters hopefully come out less than 2.5 months apart.
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
